


veins start to shiver

by charizona



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: Catching Fire AU, F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-03
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2020-04-06 23:44:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 67,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19073101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charizona/pseuds/charizona
Summary: Catching Fire AU.It's the 75th Hunger Games, and there has been a cruel change of the rules. Eve is pulled back to the Arena after years of nightmares, only to meet a real-life nightmare in the flesh: Villanelle.





	1. freedom is a curse

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I'm very loosely following Hunger Games rules here. Hopefully, you won't need to have read the books or seen the films to follow this. Just google what the Hunger Games are and you'll get a sense of it. By telling you this, I'm affirming that I'm just not replacing the characters in the original story. This will have a plot and there will be character deaths (I won't tell you who).

Konstantin Vasiliev walks into one of the two orphanages in District 1 with the intention of selecting a child to groom. He sits in the director’s office, staring at the pictures of happy families on the wall, children adopted or reunited with their parents. The director comes into the office with three files in his hand, placing them in front of Konstantin.

The first file showcases a boy with dark hair and angry eyes. He would be perfect, Konstantin thinks, except he is already fifteen, too old to shape into his own. Konstantin closes the file, and goes to the next. A girl who looks so entirely innocent Konstantin wonders why the director even bothered to give him the file. He skims over her information, and while she could be the one, some part of him pulls against it -- she doesn’t light the fire inside of him that he hoped finding the perfect child would. Idly, he thinks about whether he would be able to visit the other orphanage before the sun goes down.

Konstantin opens the third file, immediately greeted with a black and white photo of a very young girl. She gazes at the camera with curiosity. She looks normal, but something about her…

“She’s too young for prison,” the director murmurs.

“Sorry?”

“She slaughtered a family of five two years ago,” he explains. “Her father had been killed, and, well, she --”

“Why is she here?” Konstantin reads the file more carefully, and it reads like a formal report, had to be complied by Peacekeepers.

The director shrugs, and he sounds embarrassed. “There is no precedent, for children like her. We watch her as well as we can, but she… she hasn’t expressed any of the same tendencies since.” The director’s hands flatten on the desk. “Frankly, I was hoping you’d be interested in her. As she gets older, I worry for the other children.”

Konstantin looks at the girl’s face. Her name.

Oksana Astankova.

 

.

 

The tundra takes no survivors -- Eve learns this the incredibly difficult way, as her teeth chatter and her bones feel like they’ve never been as brittle. She stumbles through the blinding snowstorm, her arms wrapped around her body, tight as they can. A gust of wind knocks her to her knees, and her fingers sting as they hit the cold, hard ground. In the distance, a cannon  _ booms. _ Eve looks up, but she can’t see anything, she can’t --

A hand reaches out and grabs a fistful of Eve’s hair, fingernails scraping against her scalp. Eve cries out, but her voice is lost in the howling of the wind. She fights back as best she can, sees the glint of large knife in the snow, and she does the only thing her body wants her to do. As whoever it is angles the knife toward her, pushing in, she puts a hand on the hilt of it, and another hand on the blade. She screams as it cuts through her palm, but she’d been right -- the knife was too dull to slice right through.

She presses against it, the pain blinding her almost as much as the snow does, and then her attacker readjusts.

Too late. In the small moment it takes for her attacker to get a better grip on the knife, to plunge it straight into Eve’s chest, Eve is able to pull the knife right out of their hands.

It’s when Eve acts on reflex, stabbing into the pure white of the abyss, does she finally see her attacker’s face. A boy, she remembers, not much younger than her. He’s fifteen, and the life leaks out of his eyes as the snow disappears. Eve stares at his face, his dead, dead face, and then her eyes find her own hands, her fingers wrapped around the handle of a knife that is buried deep, deep into his chest.

Eve screams, and --

Wakes up in her home. Nineteen years in the future, now, with strong arms wrapping themselves around her shoulders. “Shh,” he whispers to her, and he’s not the boy she’d seen in her nightmares, but Niko, her husband, and the soft prickle of his facial hair against her forehead soothes her. Reminds her where she is,  _ who _ she is.

“It’s okay,” he says into her hair, and her body takes a long moment to relax. Flight or fight mode comes so easily to her, even so many years later, and Niko knows this. He holds her through it anyway, not worrying about who she was or what she did. Niko loves her anyway… Forgives her, even.

Eve wishes she could forgive herself.

She falls asleep in his arms, into a deep, dreamless sleep, and when she wakes up in the morning it’s because she hears Niko snoring, and not because she’s imagining killing that boy all over again.

 

.

 

Villanelle sits in a plain, square office, with a large window overlooking the Capitol. The buildings here are immense and fantastic, strikingly different than the ones at home. She focuses only on the shimmer of sunlight reflecting off of them, thinking about the way light reflects on many things, such as hair, water, metal, and blood.

Pressing her lips together, she straightens in her chair. If she listens carefully, she can hear the soft murmur of voices behind a closed door. Konstantin is talking about her, she knows it, and she doesn’t care, not really, but she’d love to know if it were  _ good _ things they were saying, you know, so as to know that she’s doing a good job. She doesn’t care if it’s bad things; she truly only likes hearing the praise.

Minutes tick by, and then Konstantin is walking out of the door, saying, “Let’s go,” to her in his thick accent, and Villanelle gracefully climbs out of her chair and waltzes after him.

Outside, she asks, “What did they say about me?”

“Hmm?” Konstantin is lost in thought, pulled out by Villanelle’s words. “Oh, they are very impressed with you lately.”

Villanelle smiles. Good. That’s very good. “What exactly did they say?” She tries not to look too excited, mostly because whenever she looks like that Konstantin becomes incredibly reluctant to tell her. 

“They said,” he teases, reaching into his coat, “That they want you to do another job.” He places a small postcard into her hands, and she sneers at him.

“So soon? I wanted to go shopping.”

“You can go shopping after this,” he points out, and they continue walking down the street. Villanelle allows herself to examine the shops and the houses, all of the people of the Capitol in their lavish clothing and ridiculous vanities. She makes the mistake of making eye contact with a small girl, who tugs on her mother’s sleeve, pointing at her. Her mother recognizes her instantly, and Villanelle is grumbling even before they start towards her. 

“I hate the Capitol,” she mutters, and then puts on a large, almost chaotic smile as the mother and girl reach her and Konstantin.

“Are you Oksana Astankova?” the girl asks, excited and awed.

Before Villanelle can argue, before she can say something  _ rude _ like she really, really wants to, Konstantin leans into her, holding her tight, and smiles widely at the pair. “She is,” he supplies. “Do you want an autograph?”

Something inside of Villanelle wilts. The little girl nods, and her mother hands over a small piece of paper. Villanelle crouches down and gets on the same level as the little girl, holding the paper tight in her hand. “What is your name?” she asks the girl, readying her pen. 

“Auleigha,” she says, and what a ridiculous name, Villanelle thinks. She writes it on the piece of paper, and then draws a crude picture for good measure. A small sketch of a little girl, getting murdered, and she hands the paper back, giving the mother a shit-eating grin.

“Terrible name,” she says, and then she leads Konstantin off in the opposite direction.

Finally, she looks at the postcard, reading the information on it. “Five?”

“It will be easy.” Konstantin allows himself to get distracted by something in a window, and Villanelle stands next to him impatiently. “Are you worried you won’t be able to get it done?”

“Are you sure I will be able to finish  _ and _ shop before next week?”

The unspoken question is there, underneath her words, and Konstantin turns away from his window shopping to assess Villanelle’s face. She feels him looking at every angle, every piece of her expression, digesting it. Konstantin always attempts to dive into her, dig at her insides and hope he finds something of value, but she’s always been incredibly good at being a stone, being nothing, and revealing  _ nothing _ .

“If you are quick,” he says, shrugging, “Besides, what does it matter, if you’re not done by the Reaping?”

“It matters,” she responds, and that’s all she says before she walks away from him, disappearing into the crowd of people. She’s good at disappearing, but she wishes she were better. The people still part for her, recognizing her face, seeing only what she allows them to see. Most of the time, the awe and intimidation feels good, feels like validation, but right now, Villanelle wishes she could be anonymous.

 

.

 

Eve scrubs at the counter, willing away a stain that isn’t there, and it only takes Niko’s soft grip on her hand to draw her out of. He closes his fingers around hers, and smiles at her, and she thinks she sees perhaps a bit of sadness in his gaze. Perhaps pity. She doesn’t like it. She turns away from him, clearing her throat, and leaves Niko standing by the counter while she moves on to do other things.

“There’s an event tonight,” he tells her, leaning back against the counter. He knows not to pry, but still, she can feel his eyes digging into her back, as she organizes the stable. “At the school.”

“I don’t know if I want to go,” she says, mostly because she knows  _ why _ there’s an event. She’s not sure she wants to be around people when the announcement is made. She doesn’t know what to expect, really, and she doesn’t want to be reminded of children dying all over again until she has to be.

“You never want to go,” he argues, and then he moves over to her, placing a hand on the small of her back. “Come with me. Be around other people, Eve. These people hate the games as much as you do, you’ll feel safe. I promise.”

She turns and looks at him, looks at the concern etched on his face. She hates this concern, really, and while she knows that it’s completely warranted, she wants Niko to not be concerned, to not be worried about her every single minute. But if she’s being completely honest, she’s giving him every reason to worry about her. She never leaves the house, she hardly ever talks to anyone except him. 

“Eve,” he prods, and he draws her back to their reality. Their quaint house in the Victor’s Village serving as a constant reminder of her past. “If you don’t want to go, I won’t leave you here alone. We’ll be together, no matter what.”

“I’ll go.” The words tumble out of her mouth before she can think about them. The instant sting of regret tugs at her chest, but Niko’s smile is too nice, too excited, too  _ relieved _ for her to back down now.

His hand slides down and grips her own, holding her there. Tethering her to this world before she can slip away.

She lets him hold her there, and then she gives him a small smile. “I’m going to call Kenny,” she suggests, feeling a bit more confident about her place in the world, at this moment.

“I think that’s a great idea.” Niko leans in and presses his lips to her forehead, and then he’s off to another part of the house, leaving her there in the kitchen.

It takes her a long moment to start moving, and she walks very slowly over to the phone. She dials, lets the tone fill her up, and suddenly there’s a crackle, a soft breath, and on the other end of the phone, a man says, “ _ Hello? _ ”

“Kenny, hi, it’s Eve.”

“Eve? Oh my God,” he breathes, and suddenly, Eve feels important, like she matters so someone other than Niko, and that feeling blooms in her chest like a weed.

“Hi,” she says again, laughing a bit breathlessly. “I just wanted to call you before the, um, the, you know.”

“I know,” he responds, and she can picture his stone face, staying almost expressionless, save for the small curl of his lips reserved for Eve. “I wish we could spend some time together,” he admits, “Either before this or after. If you’d come to the Capitol with your victors, I could meet you --”

Eve shakes her head, too soon before she realizes that Kenny can’t see her. Honestly, she can’t think of anything worse than visiting the Capitol again, and she hadn’t gone in years. None of the District 5 victors wanted her as their mentor, and she was fine with that, almost grateful for it, as she didn’t know how well she would do on her own, miles away from Niko, from her small and comfortable house. “No,” she says quietly, “I don’t think I --”

“Please think about it,” he tells her, and just like with Niko, she can hear the worry in his voice. It triggers the same thing inside of her that Niko’s concern does, and she feels her gates sliding closed, feels the insane urge to hang up the phone, no matter how nice finally talking to Kenny is.

“I will.” And the words are reverent, almost, even though she thinks she doesn’t mean them.

Eve moves to the couch with the phone tucked against her hear, fighting the hard pounding in her chest. Settling down into the couch cushions, she lets them envelop her, tries not to think about how these cushions were made with blood, sweat, and tears. Even her home feels unsafe at the moment, everything reminding her of the Capitol’s influence, the Capitol’s demand. She breathes shakily, and Kenny must hear it, because he asks, “Eve, did you want to talk about anything?”

“Yes,” she admits. “I dreamt about Dom last night.”

Ever so clinical, Kenny stays resolute. “How did it end?”

Squeezing the phone between her shoulder and her ear, Eve looks at her hands, scrutinizing the single glove she wears on the left one. She pulls at the edge of it, tugging it up to reveal her palm. There is the large, ugly scar left by a dull blade. She remembers the pain like it happened two days ago, like the wound is fresh. “The same. I was, well -- I couldn’t see him immediately this time. I had the overwhelming sense that I, um, that I didn’t know who was attacking me, even though I did. I do.”

“Okay, um,” Kenny starts, and they’ve done this many times before, bonding over their nightmares. “You’re probably just worried about… the next few weeks.”

“Yeah,” she says, because she knows he’s right.

“Are you going to be with Niko tonight? That should be good. He can help keep your mind off of things.”

“Oh, shit,” she breathes, remembering all of a sudden the completely lapse in judgement she’d had. “I told him I’d go to the school event with him, where most of the town comes and watches the --”

Kenny laughs, and despite herself, Eve smiles and chuckles a bit, too.

“Why am I an idiot?” she asks him, feeling some of the tension release from her muscles as she leans back. 

“You’re not,” he argues, and his smile is in his voice. “But if you can laugh about this, you’ll be okay. And I can call you after, alright?”

Eve nods, then quickly says, “Thank you.”

“Thank  _ you _ , Eve. Really.”

The line goes dead, and Eve drops her hand, letting her phone settle on her chest, balancing on her breast bone. She pretends she can feel a humming inside of the phone, feel it leaking into her and her blood fading into solely electricity. She sits there, eyes closed, and lets her body come alive with some kind of chaos, trapped deep in her chest. She imagines prying her ribcage apart, letting out something not entirely human. Then, she might finally be free of this, after so many years.

She sits there until Niko comes to remind her about the party, and then she’s up and getting dressed, whatever inside of her still trapped, still waiting, still eating at her insides.

 

.

 

Villanelle wears the white of a Peacekeeper, wears a helmet to conceal her face, and she tries not to make faces at the other Peacekeeper who look at her quizzically, wondering who she is and where she came from. She tells them  _ the Capitol _ , and she tells them she’s here to monitor the response to the announcement, and she whispers to several Peacekeepers that there are promises of uprising, in the other districts, even if she doesn’t know if there truly is.

She’s mad at Konstantin. Getting enough information on the target had taken too long, and now she would be trapped in District 5 for the announcement, and probably still for the Reaping, if she doesn’t get her shit together fast enough.

Still, the anticipation for the kill tonight hums inside of her, propelling her through the streets. As the sun goes down, she thinks that District 5 is pretty, in it’s own way. It could be called  _ urban _ , and as much as Villanelle loves the anonymity of urban landscapes, she thinks, as she walks on the hard concrete, that there probably is too much of a good thing. Would it kill  _ someone _ to plant a tree? Whatever.

She has a knife in her pocket, and part of her wants to make a fun joke with someone, lean against their hips and confuse the living daylights out of them. The other, more gruesome part of her, can’t wait until she’s plunging it deep into her target’s chest. Or stomach. Or leg. She hadn’t decided yet.

On the night of the Quarter Quell announcement, Villanelle has been tasked to kill the Attorney General of District 5, a man named Weiss Rosehorn, and she has been instructed to leave it messy, make it stand out, make whoever finds him know that he was  _ murdered _ .

_ Easy-peasy _ , Villanelle thinks, and she nods at the Peacekeeper guarding the door of Rosehorn’s house, thinking  _ wow, is he really just going to -- _

A strong hand stretches out, hitting her hard in her chest. “Credentials?” he asks, and she can’t see his face under his mask. Wishes she could. She pulls out the fake badge someone had made for her, showing it to him flippantly. Impatiently, she waits as he reads it, then regards her cautiously. “You just arrived today?”

From inside her coat, she reveals a heavily secure package, addressed directly to Rosehorn. She shakes it, showing it to the Peacekeeper. “Hand delivery.”

Her free hand rests inside of her pocket on the knife, ready for anything. It had been a long time since she had killed a Peacekeeper, but the deep red of blood on the white uniforms is something that she will never forget. The thought itches at her, and she presses her lips together tightly. “So… Can I?” She gestures inside.

The Peacekeeper is doubting her, but he lets her in anyway, and part of her is glad she didn’t have to kill him, but part of her also really, really wanted to. Rolling her eyes at herself, she travels up the steps, exploring this incredibly lavish house. She eyes the decorations, the interior design, and takes mental notes for her own home, back in District 1. She reaches the top of the stairs and wants to take her helmet off, but can’t risk being seen on the cameras, recognized. 

Soft voices lead her down the hallway, and she places the package on a nearby table, leaving it there. She doesn’t know what is in it, doesn’t care, and she reaches a room at the end of the walk, and stops, lingering by the doorway.

“Terrible,” a man mutters. “Do they think the people will be  _ happy _ about this?”

“Sir,” someone else tries, sounding like a worried messenger, “I’m beginning to think that they don’t care much about whether the people are happy or not.”

“Figures. Out of our victors… how many women?”

“Just two. Magnolia and, well, Eve.”

Villanelle peeks around the corner, surveying the scene. Her target sits in a chair near the window, and yes, she’d been right, a nervous looking young man stands nearby, wringing his hands. She doesn’t know what they’re talking about, really, until -- 

“Names pulled from the existing pool of Victors,” he sighs, shaking his head. “Preposterous.”

Villanelle reveals herself, then, and steps out from behind the wall. “Excuse me,” she says, donning a version of her voice that sounds far away, detached.  “I have important news from the Capitol.”

“More?” Rosehorn rolls his eyes, and Villanelle tries to stop thinking about what she may have just heard, and more about the way it will feel to scrape her knife across this man’s pampered, privileged neck.

“If I could have a moment with the Attorney General,” Villanelle asks. “In private.” The messenger gets the hint, bowing his head and exiting quickly. Once he’s out of sight, and Villanelle has heard his footsteps fade, she walks over to the General, who is ignoring her completely. “What did you say just then, about the Reaping?”

Cursing to himself, Rosehorn asks, “You heard that?”

“What did you say?”

“It’s nothing,” he murmurs, ignoring her too much to Villanelle’s liking. She pulls the knife, then, and places it against his neck. It glints in the light, and Villanelle cannot wait to see the way the blood will shine in this muted room. 

“Tell me,” she offers, her voice light.

“The Quell,” he breathes, suddenly terrified. “For the Quell, they’re pulling victors from the --” Villanelle tightens her grip on the knife, pressing it a bit further, cutting into Rosehorn’s neck. “They’re using the existing victors.”

Villanelle kills him, quietly, and watches as his head tips to the side and blood leaks out of his neck, spilling down his expensive suit, down, down onto the floor. She realizes her hands are shaking, something that  _ never _ happens when she does this. She scrapes the knife on Rosehorn’s lapel, wiping off the blood, and then she shoves it back into her pocket, holding it tight.

Her steps are stiff going down the stairs, but she can’t get out of here fast enough, she --

She erupts into the nighttime and stumbles out of the house, the Peacekeeper guarding the door thankfully isn’t the same one that had been there when she’d gone in. She stumbles forward, almost falls to the ground, and is this what panic feels like? Is this what --?

“Are you okay?” The Peacekeeper guarding the door comes to her aid, but she shoves him off and starts walking again, aimlessly, far enough until she can slip into a dark alley, slip into a dark room, strip out of this suffocating uniform --

Villanelle leans against the wall, hyperventilating, and she bites her bottom lip, hard, and stops. Just stops. Everything about her stills, and she holds her breath until she can’t, then lets it out cooly, controlled. She presses her back against the cool wall and imagines she’s back in a warm, comfortable living room, with her head on someone’s knees, and that someone gently stroking her hair. She doesn’t think about her name, because that would ruin it, but Villanelle thinks about her soft touch on the back of her neck and on her jaw.

It feels like she stands there for hours, but in reality, it’s just under a couple minutes.

Villanelle rights herself, resumes her breathing, and walks back into the street.

 

.

 

Going to the school event turns out to be a terrible idea. Eve can feel it, as she glues herself to Niko in the midst of a crowd, her arm nervously tucked around his elbow. Every once in a while, as he makes conversation with people, Niko turns to her and murmurs into her ear, “You alright?”

She nods tightly, willing herself to be okay, but she can’t stop looking at the large screen painted with the Capitol’s symbol, the announcement just waiting to be made. She can’t stop staring at it, feeling the uncomfortable way it makes her heart thunder, no matter how many times Niko attempts to calm her nerves by giving her a tight squeeze.

Niko steers her over to a table with some food, and Eve nervously grabs a few cheese cubes, stuffing them into her mouth. Niko regards her, then leans in, says, “Do you want to go home?”

She’s grateful he suggested it. Just as she’s about to enthusiastically agree, a woman approaches them, a large smile (and extremely large breasts, Eve notices) reserved entirely for Niko. “Niko!” she croons, immediately hugging him and pulling him away from Eve.

Eve feels insecure, unprotected, without Niko on her arm. How long has she lived like this, feeling so afraid of the world? Afraid of herself?

“Eve, this is Gemma,” Niko says, introducing his friend. He keeps a light arm around Gemma’s back, and Eve looks the woman over, noticing her simple clothes, her plain hair, and really, everything about her just feels so incredibly  _ normal _ . Hints of guilt pang at Eve’s chest; is she tearing Niko away from happiness? Is she --

“Eve?” Niko’s small smile slips back into concern, and Eve attempts to stamp down her guilt, the tight, sick feeling in her stomach.

“Hi,” she says, voice small and entirely too broken. “It’s really great to meet you.” She offers a hand to Gemma, who can’t tell the difference between a broken Eve and a normal one, not like Niko can. She holds Eve’s hand with both of her own, smiling warmly.

“I’ve literally heard such incredible things about you,” Gemma says, and Eve wonders  _ how _ , if she’s never heard anything about Gemma.

“Gemma teaches across the hallway from me,” Niko explains, treading carefully, and before he can continue, the song from the broadcast begins, the national anthem that haunts Eve’s dreams, and the announcement pulls everyone’s attention away.

As they turn to the screen, Gemma leans into Eve and whispers, “You’re one of my favorite victors, you know. Your games were  _ incredible _ .”

Eve’s blood runs cold, and everything hits her all at once. Gemma’s words, the reality of the announcement, all of it hits her. Niko’s voice, saying her name, is too far away.

The only thing she can focus on is the announcement, the smug President’s face on the screen, looking entirely too gleeful for something this somber. Eve watches the President open an envelope, smile widely, and lean into the microphone --

_ Back when the Hunger Games first started, our Founders decided that every twenty-five years there would be a Quarter Quell, an exciting alternative to the monotony of the annual Games. The seventy-fifth Hunger Games marks the third Quarter Quell, and this year, we have something incredibly exciting to behold. _

_ For the seventy-fifth Hunger Games, the victors for this year will be pulled from the existing pool of victors in each District. _

The voice fades out for Eve, and she… Well, she faints. 

 

.

 

Nineteen years in the past, Eve is sixteen. She stands in the line with the other sixteens, and she looks across the crowd of people and finds the gaze of Niko, her high school sweetheart. She smiles at him, all confidence, and he smiles back, the beginnings of facial hair polluting his face. Eve holds her head high, thinking about all of her fear melting away in a pot, like boiling chocolate, or -- or something like that. Eve’s not very good at cooking.

The escort croons, “Ladies first,” and reaches into a large, glass bowl. She pulls out a small, tiny piece of paper, and for just one second, Eve entertains the idea that it could be her name. What would she do?

The escort parts her lips at the microphone and says, “Eve Jeong,” and the first thing that crosses Eve’s mind is —

_ Oh. What  _ **_will_ ** _ I do? _

  
  
  
  



	2. like a mystery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oksana Astankova, known as the most prolific tribute in all of Hunger Games history.

Villanelle is sixteen years old, and she thinks she’s in love with a woman named Anna. After winning the Games, Villanelle only goes to school so she can watch Anna at the front of her favorite class, pointing at the board and explaining concepts Villanelle already knows. She stays in school only to practice her languages after hours with Anna, who smiles at her and is the only person in the District who doesn’t ask Villanelle what it was like being in the Hunger Games.

At Anna’s house in the evenings, Villanelle watches as Anna glances at the clock and scowls, upset it’s late and Max isn’t home. Sometimes, they sit side by side on the couch and murmur to each other in French, Anna pointedly correcting Villanelle’s pronunciation every once in a while.

After two years of pining, Villanelle sits on Anna’s couch and celebrates her eighteenth birthday. Anna has a cake. Instead of eating it, Villanelle leans forward and presses her lips against Anna’s. It’s rare for her to choose anything over cake, but kissing Anna is something she’s wanted to do for a very long while, and —

Anna kisses her back.

Slowly, at first, after getting over the shock of it. Villanelle deepens the kiss, spreading Anna’s lips apart, and she even dares to reach up and slip a hand into Anna’s hair, pulling Anna closer. Anna breathes out, breaking the kiss, and when Villanelle pulls away she finds Anna’s face flushed, her lips swollen, and her eyes dark.

Villanelle knows what it feels like to be wanted. Anna _wants_ her, and having the person she wants the most want her back feels better than anything.

It’s Anna who leans back in, pulling Villanelle against her almost viciously.

 

.

 

When the national anthem begins, Villanelle is near a school. She slinks into it, and finds exactly what she is hoping to find. She wants to hear it for herself, now, not quite believing the Attorney General, but not _not_ believing him. The President’s message plays on the large screen, and as it concludes, Villanelle finds herself nodding. This sort of ending feels rather fitting. She does the math in her head: she has a six percent chance of getting Reaped again, as there were sixteen girls from District 1 who had won in the past.

She disappears into a bathroom, just missing when the crowd suddenly becomes concerned when, across the room, Eve Polastri faints and falls to the ground.

Villanelle takes a good, long look at herself in the mirror, and she presses her hand into her pocket, where the knife is still tucked. She wraps her hand around the blade and lets it cut into her palm, and she watches herself intently for any signs of distress, physical or emotional. But there’s nothing.

She pulls her bloody hand out of her pocket. Stares at it in the mirror, but still, nothing.

A soft smile blooms on her face, and she reaches for the faucet handle, turns it on, and dunks her cut hand underneath the water. It stings, and now, she finally allows herself to feel something. She hisses, sinking into the harsh feeling of pain, and she hardly notices it when the door at the edge of the room opens.

Once most of the blood washes away, fading into a nice pink, Villanelle glances over and meets eyes with a beautiful woman, albeit a little pale. Flushed, almost.

She has amazing hair, Villanelle thinks, and the water begins to tug at her open wound in a way that is not delightful at all, so she pulls it out, turns the water off, and continues looking at the woman --

Who is looking at her hand. “Are you okay?” she asks, and what a stupid thing to ask, Villanelle thinks, because she obviously is.

“I’m fine,” Villanelle says, not necessarily taking the bait. She reaches for a towel and presses it into the wound, finds the woman still staring at her.

There’s a flutter in Villanelle’s chest, as she imagines wooing this woman and taking her to bed. Something about the way she looks at Villanelle is akin to curiosity.

They stare at each other, the other woman forgetting her manners entirely, and her eyes begin to squint into something Villanelle has come to hate. _Recognition_. Just as she opens her mouth to say something, there’s a knock on the door. Then, a man’s voice, “Eve, are you alright in there?”

The woman, Eve, seems to lose her nerve. “Yeah,” she breathes, finally breaking eye contact with Villanelle. “I’ll be out in a second.” Eve takes one last look at Villanelle before slipping into a bathroom stall. Villanelle tosses the towel to the side and walks out the door, running almost smack into a mustached man.

She makes a face at him, rather rudely, and continues out into the night.

 

.

 

Bless his heart, Niko seems to almost have an unlimited amount of patience for Eve, when it comes to being that time of year again. She can say anything, do anything, ask for almost anything, and Niko will give it to her. She’s thankful for this, and pretends she doesn’t see the hurt in his gaze when she tells him she’s leaving, going to Bill’s, and probably won’t be back until late, so don’t wait up. He looks sorrowful, worried about her, and sometimes, getting everything you ask for isn’t what you want in the first place.

She avoids watching his face as she slips out the door, and Niko stands in the middle of the hallway staring after her somberly. The walk to Bill’s is quick; he’s right next door.

After she knocks, she waits. Finally, the knob turns and the door opens, revealing Bill, his face aged and worn. He smiles at her, letting her in wordlessly, and she shifts past him into his expensive house that is simultaneously a replica of her own, yet entirely different. Different colors, different pieces of furniture. Where her and Niko’s home is almost warm and inviting, Bill’s is more sterile, yet accessible.

“I thought you’d be around,” he jokes, and he offers her a glass of morphling.

Accepting it, she takes a long, deep drink, and says, “Yeah, well. Niko started giving me puppy-dog eyes and I had to get out.”

“He doesn’t think it’s going to be you?” In the kitchen, Bill pours himself another glass.

“I don’t know. Maybe,” she says, settling down on Bill’s couch, holding her glass tight. “I think he thinks that I’m worried it’s going to be me. That I’ll kill myself before it, or something.”

“You won’t, right?” A chuckle comes after the words.

Eve tips her glass to him. “Maybe.”

Bill smiles at her, and tips his glass right back. “To maybes.” He downs it all in one gulp, and Eve’s eyes widen. Making his way back to the living  room, Bill sits down next to her, swirling a new glass. “How many women are there, anyway?”

“Two,” Eve says. “Including me.”

“Mm.” Bill sighs. “It will probably be you.”

Eve downs her drink this time, right after tipping it in his direction. She knows he’s right. Fifty-percent chance. She doesn’t feel as sick as she did in the school, feeling more at peace with it all. Moreover, scenarios keep repeating in her head, different ways she could kill herself, different ways she could die in the Games. “I think,” she says after a moment, “I’ll just find whoever deserves to win, and let them take me out.”

“No one deserves to win,” Bill points out.

“No one deserves to lose,” Eve counters, and when Bill slings his arm around the back of the couch, Eve finds herself scooting over and leaning against him, finding that sweet spot between his chest and his arm. He holds her there.

“You’re my favorite, you know,” he tells her quietly. “You always have been.”

“Does this count as a compliment if all of your victors are dead?”

Laughing, he smacks her on the shoulder. “I think it does.” Eve chuckles against him. “You know,” he continues, “You were my first. Hell of a first. I remember watching you blunder your way through Siberia and hoping to God I hadn’t failed you. I thought that if you were to die, I’d kill myself. Mostly because I thought I wouldn’t be able to live with the fact that I’d be the reason you died.”

“You wouldn’t have been,” Eve protests, but Bill continues.

“I know, I know.” He sighs. “After I won, I stopped growing up. I was torn apart in the Capitol, and when this teenaged girl looked at me -- that’d be you --”

“I figured.”

“When you looked at me and said you wanted _me_ to be your mentor, I was terrified.”

A long silence stretches between them, and Eve listens to Bill’s heartbeat in his chest, thumping against his ribs. She thinks she’s glad they’re both here, both alive, but part of her feels just as terrified as she thinks Bill felt when Eve chose him, so many years ago. Wordlessly, Bill grabs Eve’s hand and holds it, squeezing. Grounding her. “Don’t let Niko see that,” she warns, a smile spreading across her face.

“I hope you’ve let him believe we’re having an affair.”

“I’ve tried, but he doesn’t.”

“Damn,” Bill breathes. “It’s a really good look for a man in his sixties to bag someone like you.” They meet eyes, and Eve laughs. It feels good to laugh, feels good to be weightless.

 

.

 

“Did you know?” The words come out as a snarl, and Villanelle’s hand is clamped around Konstantin’s throat, his head aching from when she slammed him against the wall, too strong for her own good.

This is Konstantin’s wall, a wall in his own home in the Victor’s Village of District 1. It’s the home she grew up in, and the home she knows better than her own a few houses down. Next to Konstantin’s head, on the corner of the wall, are small pencil marks every few inches, until the final one, marking five feet eight inches, and Villanelle’s age: eighteen.

His eyes flutter closed, and he takes a calculated breath against the pressure on his windpipe. “No,” he says, and just as suddenly as it appeared, the pressure is gone. Villanelle reaches out and touches the small mark on the wall that reads _12_. She had been so short.

Villanelle steps back, anger clouding her features. “You’re not lying?”

Konstantin puts his right hand on his chest, while his left massages his neck.

Stalking away from him, Villanelle begins to pace. She walks five steps before turning sharply on her heel, walking another five steps in the opposite direction. Konstantin watches her without saying a word, and Villanelle stops, suddenly, and looks at him. “What if it is me?” She doesn’t let him see the worry pricking deep inside of her. There’s no point.

“Then you will kill everyone else, and when you’re out, you will continue to do your job.” She stays quiet for too long, and Konstantin raises a brow. “Do you not think you can do it?”

“I can do it,” she snaps, too quickly.

Nodding, Konstantin knows she can. Villanelle also knows she can, but she worries about it nonetheless. It’s smart to worry, smart to think about her chances against all of the others who have killed, even if they haven’t killed as much as she has.

“You will be there tomorrow, yes?”

“If I’m not, I will be arrested,” she counters, eyeing Konstantin.

“That has not stopped you before.” She knows Konstantin is right. A huge part of her wants to disappear into the forest, leave the District entirely, but it’s cowardly to run, and Villanelle is not a coward. If she is picked tomorrow, she will make the best of it. She will have fun. She will not think about --

Shrugging, Villanelle blocks out her own thoughts. “I will be there.” She goes for the door, pausing before she opens it. “Send me the tapes of the other victors. I will watch them tonight.”

“The Reaping is tomorrow, and you have not even been chosen. There are seventy-five tapes,” he complains.

“Send me the ones of everyone who is alive,” she presses, before she pulls open the door and steps into the dusk.

The air is warm and dry, sifting through her golden hair as she walks with purpose down the street. Compared to the other districts, the Victor’s Village in District 1 is lively. Most of the victors are friends with one another, as there are enough of them to make up a small, deadly community. Villanelle is friends with none of them and keeps her head down as she passes the two houses between hers and Konstantin’s. She climbs her steps, unlocks her door, and walks into a stale, untouched home.

She feels like she hasn’t been home for weeks. She doesn’t know if this house qualifies as a home. The closest thing that had ever felt like home was Anna’s warm house on the edge of the district, where they would --

Shaking her head, Villanelle strips out of her clothes and grabs a small tablet on the table. There’s a message from Konstantin, and she opens the file, revealing an entire folder full of information on all of the victors across the districts. Their basic information, their Reapings, their Games, and finally, their time spent after the games. It lists their kills, and most of the victors have several underneath their belt by the time they come out on top.

She smirks when she finds her own file. She killed nineteen out of twenty-three tributes her year. She doesn’t even remember their names.

One of the files pricks her interest. A victor with only one kill? Villanelle opens it, greeted first by a mugshot-like photo of a young, attractive Asian girl. “Nice face,” Villanelle murmurs to herself, and she reads the file. Eve Jeong, stayed out of the way from the other tributes out of pure survival, only coming into contact when the arena forced the last two remaining together. It was a shitty arena that year -- Villanelle tries to remember if she’d watched it.

She had been… five years old during Eve’s Games.

She’s about to flip to another file when another photo pops up. A recent photo of Eve, with a mane of frizzy hair and a soft smile.

Villanelle stares at it. For a second, Eve’s face is replaced by Anna’s. Her thumb finds the cut on her palm, rubbing against it, sparking a fire of pain in her hand, and she looks down. She remembers the bathroom in District 5, remembers the woman who had looked at her, murmured, “Are you okay?” The woman, she knew now, had been Eve.

Something stirs inside of her, and before she realizes it, she closes the window on the tablet, throws it to the side, and stands, beelining for her closet. She picks out an outfit: dark jeans, a close-fitting sweater, and a long blazer on top of it. She keeps her hair down. Villanelle stops as she catches her own reflection, takes a moment to stare at herself, before she turns and leaves.

 

.

 

The night before the Reaping, Eve takes a bath. She sinks underneath the water and pushes air out of her nose, letting the bubbles climb to the surface. She opens her eyes, ignoring the sting of soap, and stares at the shimmering ceiling above her, her sight displaced by the murky water. She holds her breath until she can’t, and she sits up, breathing hard. Her hands are distant under the water, until she lifts them up, out.

There, on her right hand, is the old, faded purple line. A raised scar across her palm, a constant reminder of her wrongdoings.

Dom’s face pops into her head. She remembers him during training. The worst part, Eve thinks (and has thought for years), is that he wasn’t even a Career, someone from the first four districts. He had been a farm boy from District 9, had taken out too much tesserae because his family needed to eat and he was the oldest. Eve remembers her Victory tour, when she had to stare at his family and tell them how grateful she was to have killed their son.

The bathwater beneath her turns red, and Eve’s breath quickens, the air constricting inside of her, until she can’t breathe, can’t --

“Eve,” Niko says, alarmed, and he comes and kneels next to the bath, snatching her hand in his own, hiding the scar from her. He wraps an arm around her naked body and helps her out of the tub.

In their bedroom, Niko goes through the motions and helps Eve dry off and get dressed. Eve stands there, staring at nothing, as Niko rubs a warm towel over her body, offers her underwear and a long shirt, and soon, he pulls her toward the bed.

She slips into bed and Niko settles behind her. He curls his arm around her middle, pulling her tight against him, and the soft hum of his breath tickles the back of her neck. Eve blinks, the face of the boy she murdered slipping out of her head, and she falls into a light, fitful sleep.

 

.

 

Finding someone the night before the Reaping isn’t nearly as hard as Villanelle thought it would be. There are parties being thrown, and every bar across the district is full and lively. Villanelle walks down the main street and smiles when she catches eyes with anyone. Tonight, Villanelle hides her anxiety about tomorrow and shows her face as a confident victor, something she knows the people of her District love to see.

She enters a random bar on a random corner and immediately feels eyes on her. As she reaches the bar. the bartender is ready for her, smiling, and a man steps up next to Villanelle.

“On me,” he says and gives the bartender an order. He turns to Villanelle, smiling, and says, “So, what brings Oskana Astankova out the night before the Reaping?”

Eyes like fire, Villanelle looks him up and down. He would do, she supposes, but she’s not in the mood for someone to take her like a trophy tonight. She’s hardly ever in _that_ mood. She wonders, idly, as the bartender hands her a drink, if this man would let _her_ take him.

“Oh, you know,” she murmurs, ignoring her drink. “Sometimes I like to get out.”

“I have no doubt about that,” he agrees, leaning into her.

Villanelle scans the crowd, looking for someone softer, someone pliable, and says to the man, “Excuse me.” She leaves her drink untouched, moving into the crowd, and the man stares after her.

There’s a woman in the crowd, with dark hair and dark eyes. Villanelle shifts toward her, body bouncing with an intolerable bass, no doubt a Capitol conception, until she reaches her. “Hello,” Villanelle says, and the woman blinks at her, recognizing her face.

“Oh, um, hi,” she breathes, blushing, and Villanelle thinks, for a moment, that this is entirely too easy.

Sometimes easy is good. After some quick back and forth, Villanelle wraps her hand around the woman’s wrist, pulling her through the crowd and out the door. In the alley out back, Villanelle presses her against the wall and slips a hand between her legs, pretending she doesn’t hear her old name on the woman’s lips. She doesn’t kiss her, doesn’t want to, only bites at her neck and works her fingers until the woman comes. She pulls at Villanelle desperately, wanting as much as she can get.

As she comes down, Villanelle lets go of her, gives her some space.

The woman looks positively hungry for her. Villanelle flashes a smile, reaches up and swipes her thumb across the woman’s cheek, and leans in, presses their lips together lightly. “Thank you,” she murmurs, and she leaves the woman standing there, ignoring the fire in her belly.

Back at her own home, Villanelle shoves a hand into her pants. She finishes herself off quickly, biting her lip hard enough to draw blood.

 

.

 

During the Reaping, when Eve’s name is called, Eve does not cry.

Niko immediately grabs her hand with the intention of never letting go, and she finds herself being more annoyed than anything when he pulls her close and murmurs into her neck, the wet hot sting of tears at his eyes. There are cameras on her, and every single one of the other victors will now be able to know of this weakness. When Niko pulls back, Eve watches hurt flash across his face when he realizes her expression is blank.

Despite herself, she gives him a soft smile. This seems to be enough to reassure him.

Eve walks to the stage and takes her place next to the escort, not even bothering to pay attention when the name of the other tribute is called. Bill materializes behind her, reaching forward and subtly grabbing her hand.

Later, Eve is numb. The Peacekeepers open the door to the small room inside the Mayor’s building, letting in Niko, who has red, puffy eyes. He pulls her in for a tight hug, and this time, because there are no cameras and no one to see her weakness besides the man she loves, she hugs him back, just as tightly. “Jesus Christ,” he breathes into her hair, and Eve nods against him.

“I just,” she starts, then pauses, because she doesn’t know quite what to say to him. Tears prick uncomfortably at her eyes, but Niko is there to wipe them away instantly. “I just want you to know,” she tries again, “that I love you a lot. That you’re the only reason I’m still here.”

“We’ve done this before,” he argues.

“Not like this.” She shakes her head, and a tear manages to get past Niko’s attention, slipping down her cheek.

“Eve,” he warns, and she knows he doesn’t want her to make this as final as this is.

“Whatever happens,” she continues. “Promise me that you’ll let yourself be happy. You deserve that, at least.”

She looks up at him, meeting his eyes. Kind eyes. Those eyes, quaking with worry, fear, everything she knows he’s feeling. Silently, she pleads with him, because she knows she could never face death if it meant Niko would be forever ruined.

“Promise me,” she urges, squeezing his hands.

Niko wraps her in his arms and hugs her. “I promise,” he says, and she wonders if he means it.

 

.

 

Villanelle plays a character when her name is called. She smiles, leans into the microphone, and says, “My name is Villanelle.” The crowd loves this, goes wild, and Villanelle smiles and makes eye contact with the camera. At twenty-five, she is impeccable shape. She works as a contract killer for her employers, whoever they are, but the world knows nothing of this. Her future competitors know nothing of it.

They know her only as the girl who won when she was twelve. The girl who killed nineteen out of twenty-three.

The girl known as the most prolific tribute throughout the entire Hunger Games history.

She has no family, so she goes straight to the train. Konstantin is there, waiting for her, and she wonders if he looks so sad because he worries he will lose his best asset, or if he actually cares about her. He opens his arms to her, offering her a hug, and despite wanting to hug him, wanting to feel warm and loved, she brushes him off, smiling instead. A deadly, feral smile.

“Come on, Konstantin,” she teases, making her way to the back of the train, attempting to find the food. “This will be fun.”

 

.

  


When Villanelle is twenty years old, the Games are switched up. Five years before the Quarter Quell, there is an uneasiness in the districts, so the President decides to shake things around. Villanelle attends the Reaping just to watch the volunteer competitions, but as the escort begins his speech, he explains something about this year will be different. In District 1, people begin to buzz with excitement, and Villanelle, a bit curious herself, tilts her head to one side.

_The victors will be pooled from every member of the District, not just ages twelve through eighteen. In addition, there will be no volunteering allowed._

Villanelle thinks that in the other districts, those words might be a blessing. That in the other districts, they will accept what is done is done.

Here, however, there is some kind of outrage. Luxury, the Capital favorites, and here we are, whining about a rule change this late in the game. Honor given only in accordance with chance. Fate. Villanelle thinks it’s poetic, almost, until --

Until the escort moves to the girls’ bowl, digging through the thousands of names, making quite a show of it, and pulling out one single piece.

 _Anna Leonova_.

From her spot with the victors, Villanelle’s eyes find her, finds the unruly curls in the crowd, as Anna moves forward, as the crowd parts. Villanelle grows itchy, can’t quite sit still, and another victor, a man, Raymond, leans over to her and sneers, “She’s yours, right?”

Villanelle shoves him, hard, but her jaw sets. She is. Or, at least, she was. Anna moves to the stage and takes the escort’s hand, and Villanelle doesn’t care who the boy is. She looks at Anna’s face, sees Anna’s tears, and clenches her fist. Tight.

Later, before they’re on the train and when they’re locked in a room and Anna is supposed to be saying goodbye to her family, Villanelle places her open hands on Anna’s cheeks and holds her there, their foreheads touching. Anna asks her to be her mentor, and Villanelle murmurs, _of course, of course_ , before she’s kissing her, pressing her lips insistently against Anna’s, holding her there, grounding her to the world. Anna’s tears spill between them, and Villanelle doesn’t know what they’re kissing and crying about, exactly, but she does know one thing.

She knows  out of everyone in District 1, Anna deserves this the least. There are people who trained their entire adolescence and never got a chance, people who want so desperately to go but never did. Perhaps this is how people in the other districts felt, powerless and like there was no justice.

As Villanelle waits by the train, as Anna says goodbye to her family, Villanelle realizes she will find out what it feels like to lose the one you love.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please comment and give me kudos if u enjoy... i'm thirsty...


	3. willingly down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If Eve pretends she can almost imagine this is one of Niko’s school functions, the other tributes his colleagues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw - suicidal ideation and non-consensual prostitution
> 
> brief discussions of sex, rape

Eve is seventeen, and she is a celebrity.

She travels across the country and stands on stages, staring at the families of the dead tributes. She’s not responsible for their childrens’ deaths, except for one. Dom’s family is bone-thin, with gaunt cheeks, and she knows immediately that they are starving. She remembers the bony feeling of the boy she’d fought off, and her hand aches. She clenches her fist around the scar and says the speech that had been prepared for her.

Back on the train, Bill hovers, uncomfortable, wondering if he can help, but silent tears make their way down Eve’s face. She hates herself for being alive, for being the one who made it out. Her family is normal, barely needs the money from this, and while her parents would’ve been sad, they would’ve been okay, after a while.

She doesn’t deserve to be alive. The words echo in her head. Over and over and over.

 

.

 

“Alright,” Bill says, and Eve sits next to him on the couch of a small train car, with a widescreen before them. He fiddles with a remote, before Eve takes it from him and gets it started. She flips through some of the videos, not really paying attention, and then hands the remote back to him. This is her least favorite part, learning who the other tributes are. They all have track records, killing styles, and they are all frightening.

Eve looks at Bill. “You know all of them?”

“I’ve met most of them,” he sighs, before clicking a video at random. “I’m sure you’ll know a few.”

The video starts, playing a Reaping from one of the other Districts. It’s District 2, and the woman is called Nadia, the man, Anton. “She won two years ago, I think,” Bill says. “He’s older, right? Maybe more than ten years ago.” 

“I don’t recognize either,” she admits, staring at the screen. “I don’t watch the Games.”

He turns to her. “You don’t?”

Eve shakes her head. Niko always took one for the team, playing the Games on their television so it would register in the Capitol as being viewed, but always letting Eve go to bed early. She avoided the house when it came to the Games. Years ago, she used to go to the Capitol with the victors, but she stopped doing that when she figured out there was no avoiding watching. It was how she’d met her long distance friends, and while she regrets not keeping up with them, not watching the Games was better for her.

“Niko’s a better man that I thought,” Bill sighs, before grabbing the tablet and opening a window. “Says here in her file she’s great with hand to hand, probably better with weapons.” Bill flips through the tablet with information on the victors. Eve wonders idly what it says in there about her.

“Great,” Eve says dryly.

Bill smiles at her, then turns back. “Anton’s a talker. He talked his way out of being murdered… three times during his Games.”

Eve gazes at the bald man on screen, wondering what he could’ve possibly said. Instead of asking for more information, Eve remembers something. Quickly, she says, “Could you check eleven?”

Nodding, Bill flips to eleven. Sure enough, the sinking feeling in Eve’s stomach was right. Called up to the stage is Elena Felton, smiling through what Eve knows for her is devastation. “Fuck,” Eve breathes, and Bill leans against her, offering support in any way he can.

“I think,” he says slowly, “she was the only victor. The only woman, anyway.”

Eve nods, shaken. 

“Shall we continue?” Bill raises the remote, not necessarily waiting for Eve’s reply. He clicks through the rest of the Districts, going back from eleven. Most of the victors are in their thirties, but Eve’s chest twinges when she sees that the boy (and he is a boy) from seven is still a teenager. The next one, a woman from six, is pregnant (Eve commits her name to memory --  _ Jess _ \-- with the intention of finding her, holding her hand, and helping). Then, there’s Eve, and next up, the Careers.

Everyone from the first four districts always looks incredibly intimidating, so Eve brushes them off. That is, until they reach District 1.

“Shit,” Bill and Eve both say, but for different reasons.

Eve stares at the screen, immediately recognizing the young woman on stage from the bathroom at the school. She doesn’t know why she remembers seeing her there, her memory from that night is foggy enough, but she  _ knows _ she saw this woman. Standing at the sink, a long, bloody cut in the middle of her hand.

“That’s Oksana Astankova,” Bill says, and he turns to Eve. “Possibly one of the greatest killers in the history of the Hunger Games.”

What had she been doing in five? Eve watches the woman take the stage and reveal a new name to the crowd, who obviously loves her.

“There’s alcohol on this train, right?” She looks to Bill, who nods sagely. They ditch the screen and head toward the other end of the train, Eve wanting nothing more than to drown her thoughts and worries with a morphling headache.

 

.

 

Villanelle chomps happily on the luxurious Capitol food in their traincar. Konstantin reads something a few seats away from her, and looking around, Villanelle wonders aloud, “Where is Raymond?”

Raymond, the boy she’d hit in the face when Anna had gotten Reaped, is somewhere on this train, and Villanelle feels unsteady not knowing exactly where.

“Don’t do that,” Konstantin warns, when he finds her making a small face out of her food. He swats the fork out of her hands, and she glares at him. “He is somewhere,” he continues, waving his hand, before going back to his reading.

“But  _ where _ ,” Villanelle groans, looking sadly at the dismantled face on her plate.

“You are not allowed to kill him.”

“I do not want to kill him,” Villanelle lies. Out of everything she’s thinking about for the upcoming Games, imagining killing Raymond is at the top of her list. She remembers his sneer when Anna was pulled to stage, remembers a lewd comment about how Anna hadn’t aged well. Gripping her fork, Villanelle minutely shakes her head, attempting to rid herself of the thoughts. Anna  _ had _ aged well, so Raymond should’ve shut up.

Konstantin puts his reading down on the table. “Have you thought about your strategy yet?” He picks up his fork and pokes at his food a bit more.

Shrugging, Villanelle puts a large piece of food in her mouth. While chewing it, she says, “I think going without a strategy is best.”

“Stupid,” Konstantin mutters. “Everyone here is skilled, everyone is --”

“Not skilled,” Villanelle counters. “What skills does the pregnant one have?”

“You must be skilled to win,” he reminds her, like it’s some revelatory concept that she’d forgotten. 

She presses her lips into a thin line, annoyed, and decides to change the subject. “Why don’t you want your daughter to compete?” Konstantin stills, his fork hanging in the air, and Villanelle knows that she’s hit him where it hurts. Perhaps too hard. Raising a hand quickly, she continues, “I mean, she is  _ skilled _ . She’s smart. She’s like me.”

“Not like you,” he grumbles.

“Then why don’t you let her volunteer?” It’s a loaded question. They both know that most, if not all, of the volunteers die trying to get a chance to compete in the Games. Volunteering, Villanelle remembers, was the best part of her Games. The first chance she’d had to shed blood and mean it. Different from the first time, when she’d killed the people who killed her parents.

Shrugging, Konstantin simply says, “I do not want her to die.”

Villanelle’s face twitches, and she returns to her food, suddenly not so hungry. She doesn’t let herself think about the implications of that statement. She never asks Konstantin about her past often, but she knows exactly why he’d shown up in that orphanage and picked her. 

“I will think of a strategy,” she hums, and she peeks at Konstantin, catching him looking at her with the same softness as when he’d talked about his daughter.

 

.

 

As soon as the train rolls to a stop in the Capital, Eve is grabbed and prodded, her skin rubbed raw. She remembers this part and lets it happen. The stylists bicker about her hair, wondering what they should do with it, and she smiles to herself when they start straightening it. It doesn’t stay, though, and turns into a wavy mess instead. One of the stylists pulls her hair a bit too hard, but Eve just squeezes her eyes shut and thinks about better things.

Like Niko running his hands through her tangles.

Eve opens her eyes. Her plan is to forget Niko, in these final moments, because it’s easier than thinking about him during every moment. If she’s going to do what she sets out to do during the Games, then she’ll need to think of him as minimally as possible. If she thinks about him, she’ll want to go home. She can’t go home.

When the stylists are done, Eve doesn’t recognize her reflection. There’s a different person staring back at her, her hair wavy and her face caked with makeup that is both flattering and odd. Absent are the tired marks on her face, the worry lines that have engraved themselves into her skin after all these years.

Idly, she wonders what  _ Villanelle _ will look like. The thought punctures her, and she shakes it away almost as suddenly as it came.

They put her in a black dress, with lines of pulsing electricity running across the fabric. She doesn’t know how they do it, make these clothes come alive. It shimmers as she moves, and she stares a bit too long; a stylist pulls at her elbow, leading her into the next room.

The Capitol is just as Eve remembers it. Bright, shiny, incredibly inauthentic. Everyone has bright hair and too-white smiles. Eve smiles and shakes hands, as Bill reminds her that she has to stay likeable. In the districts, Eve knows the Reapings are being broadcasted on all of the TVs, reruns playing over and over before the opening ceremonies. Eve and Bill make their way to a large staging area with chariots and horses, and Eve immediately goes to her own, placing a soft hand on the horse’s neck.

“Eve!” A screeching voice calls from across the area, and Eve turns to find a beautified Elena running toward her as best she can in heels.

It’s a spectacle that draws attention. Several sets of eyes belonging to the other tributes turn to them as Elena crashes into Eve, hugging her tightly. “God, I didn’t know when I’d see you again,” Elena breathes into Eve’s neck.

She pulls back, hands on Eve’s shoulders, and smiles wickedly. Eve wonders how she’s so happy, but the feeling is infectious; Eve finds herself smiling back. “Here I am.”

“Fuck yeah, you are.” Elena shakes her head in amazement. “Well, I mean, not  _ fuck _ yeah, because we’re both going to die, but you know what I mean.”

Eve laughs, and they both decide not to comment on Elena’s words. Instead, Eve looks at Elena’s outfit. Despite the makeup on Elena’s face, her stylists gave her possibly the worst looking dress. The color of dirt, with some small food iconography. Eve opens her mouth to comment on it, but Elena cuts her off.

“I know,” she says. “We’re ignoring it.”

“I missed you,” Eve says instead, leaning into her friend. 

“How’s Niko? He’s probably doing brilliantly right now.” 

“He’s the same,” Eve replies, and she scans the area for the other tributes, finding herself a little sad that she can’t seem to spot a particular someone. “We both cried when I left.”

“Of course you did.” Elena follows Eve’s gaze, lowering her voice. “Is it bad of me to think some of the others are hot? The younger ones. Why do they make the Careers so damn beautiful?”

Eve laughs. “Did you see everyone on the tapes?”

Elena makes a face, turning back to Eve. “Mm, just a few. The dangerous ones.”

Eve wants to ask if that includes Villanelle, but decides against it, as she spots the woman in her head at the other end of the area, arriving in an immaculately pink dress that looks incredible on her. Villanelle looks bored, standing next to her angry counterpart. Eve remembers him as Raymond, and he wears an all black suit. Elena follows her gaze, scoffing under her breath.

“Like I said,” she points out. “All of the ones who could slaughter us with their bare hands are just inhumanely beautiful.”

It takes all Eve has to turn back to Elena, and she swears she feels a hazel gaze fall in her direction, but she does, and she says, “Please. You’re gorgeous.”

“I’m dressed as a pile of shit, Eve.” But there’s a sparkle in Elena’s eye, and she bumps her shoulder with Eve’s.

 

.

 

After the ceremony, Eve and Bill walk to the Training Compound, a large skyscraper, and go to the fifth floor. All of Eve’s stuff has already been put away in drawers; she hadn’t brought clothes, only small reminders of home. She opens the closet and looks through the clothing provided for her. Neutral hues, nothing inordinately bright. Eve touches the fabric, thinking about how expensive it is. People probably died in the factories in eight so she could wear these things.

A small rumble in her stomach reminds her both how hungry she is and how nauseous.

That’s why Eve finds herself in the elevator, going all the way up to the top. Each district gets their own floor of the skyscraper, and the two tributes from each can stay separate, if they want to, or they can stay in the common area. Eve doesn’t want to spend time with her district mate, tells Bill this early on, so he makes sure they don’t see each other.

The commissary is on the top floor, and the training floor underneath it. Eve imagines the view before she sees it, and when the elevator doors slide open, she finds that her imagination wasn’t off. One of the tallest buildings in the Capitol, being on the top floor of the Training Compound gives her an unequivocal view of the city. Living in five, Eve is accustomed to urban life, loves the metals and shiny windows. She goes over to the window before really looking around, and then tilts her chin down, letting her gaze follow the side of the building.

Eve imagines hitting the ground. Hard. What her body might do from that impact. Would she shatter, instantly? Would she die right away? Would it hurt? Would it --

“Eve,” Elena says, drawing Eve back. “I didn’t think you’d be up here?”

Turning around, Eve remembers her reality. She focuses on where she is -- A large, cafeteria-style mess hall, with enough tables for all of the tributes to sit alone, if they like, but there are already groups forming. Doing a quick count, Eve notices that not everyone is here, but a large portion are.

If she pretends she can almost imagine this is one of Niko’s school functions, and these are his colleagues.

Elena puts a hand on Eve’s upper arm, and that’s when Eve sees her. Villanelle, sitting at a table off to the side and by herself, and Eve wonders, suddenly,  _ why _ , she’s not flanked with people. 

“Bit creepy, that one,” Elena says under her breath, noticing where Eve’s gaze is. Eve’s cheeks flush at being caught, but she lets Elena lead her to the food.

“Where are the other Careers?”

“Probably too proud to eat with us.” Elena finally lets go of Eve’s arm and begins to put food on a plate. It’s all incredibly decadent, and Eve’s apprehension fades away when she realizes how hungry she is.

She shovels food onto her plate, more than she knows she can handle, and still makes plans in the back of her head for her second plate. Fried and broiled chicken, large vats of vegetables and potatoes, desserts, and Eve remembers from her last Games that there will be a different focus in the meal tomorrow night. After putting a small dash of gravy on all of her food, Eve turns and sees Elena sitting with two others, one of which is Jess, Eve recognizes.

The pregnant one.

Sure enough, Eve notices the bulge in her belly as she makes her way over, and she tries not to focus on it, sitting down next to Elena.

The man at the table (it takes Eve a second to place his name, and she remembers it’s Hugo), sits up immediately when Eve sits down, leaning over his food and whispering to them all, “So, why are we all pretending we didn’t watch half of the Careers fuck during their Games?”

It’s not what Eve was expecting, so as she drinks a cool glass of water, she snorts, the water almost forcing its way out of her nose.

Waving his hands around, Hugo shrugs. “I just think that if we’ve seen the other tributes at their most vulnerable, we’re entitled to something.”

“And what would that be?” Jess murmurs, smiling a little. Before Hugo can respond, she turns to Eve and offers a hand out. “I’m Jess.”

“Eve.”

“And I’m Hugo, that’s Elena, and I watched Anton, over there, fuck a tribute from his Games, last about a minute, and then kill her.” Everyone turns as Anton walks into the mess hall, surveying the scene before making moves to get food. 

Elena raises a brow. “I remember that.”

Jess hits Hugo on the shoulder, shaking her head. “Stop talking about sex.”

“Okay, hear me out,” Hugo continues, leaning in like what he’s saying is top secret. “Like, if we  _ know _ they want to get some during the games, shouldn’t we try to exploit that?”

Misunderstanding him, Eve coughs on some water. “What?”

Grinning like mad, Hugo explains further, “Like, seduce them and then kill them.”

Eve wonders how they’re all so lighthearted about this. Hugo’s right on some level, but it’s impossible to judge the seriousness of his words. “Sure,” she says slowly. “In theory, someone could do that.”

“Not just in theory. Why not in practice?” Hugo stares at Eve, and Eve is reminded of how young he is. Not even thirty.

Elena saves her, says, “Well, I get the wanting to have a good time part. We’re all dying anyway, so why not get a good lay out of it?”

“Exactly,” Hugo agrees, leaning back and taking his attention off Eve, pleased someone is agreeing with him.

Eve retreats into herself, pretending to not notice the way that Anton ambles over to Villanelle’s table, says something to her, and then after she smiles at him, briefly, sits down next to her. They start chatting, and Eve wants desperately to know what they’re saying. She tears her eyes away, returning to her plate, and continues eating, as her new friends chat about what their home lives are like, where they came from. Elena is the most chatty, which doesn’t really surprise Eve, and when she looks up again, attempting to figure out when would be a good time to stand up and get more food, she finds Jess smiling at her.

Eve smiles back. “I’m gonna get more food,” she says, standing and taking her plate with her. Elena and Hugo don’t miss a beat in their convo, but Jess nods minutely.

Back at the food bar, Eve surveys her options. She misses it completely when a figure comes to stand next to her, so distracted by the food that she jumps when the person speaks.

“Eve Polastri,” Villanelle says, by way of greeting, and Eve looks at her.

Villanelle is a few inches taller, certainly younger, and she is, unmistakably, the same woman Eve had seen in the school bathroom. Eve wants to stare, but instead, asks, “Did you want something?” It comes out colder than Eve wants it to, but then she remembers who this woman is, what she did during her Games.

There’s a flash of annoyance in Villanelle’s eyes that disappears as quickly as it comes. She shakes her head, smiling (a disarming, light smile), and just turns back to the food. “Just recommendations. See anything you like?”

Eve looks at Villanelle, then eyes her plate. It’s already topped with too much food, and Eve wonders how Villanelle eats like this, but looks like  _ that _ . “I mean,” she starts, “Sure. All of it.” Eve gestures to the food before them. “But it looks like you’re covered.”

Villanelle lifts a brow at that, and Eve watches her bite back a comment. It confirms what Eve already believed, that Villanelle must be entitled and arrogant. Smile in place, Villanelle shrugs. “Can’t a girl eat whatever she wants before going into an extreme survival situation?”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?”

“I don’t know,” Villanelle muses. “What do  _ you _ call it?”

Eve stares at her. “A death sentence.”

Feigning mock offense, Villanelle takes a small step forward. “Would that make me your executioner?”

“I don’t know,” Eve bites back. “Are you going to kill me?”

Villanelle breaks their eye contact, reaching around Eve to grab a piece of chicken. Eve gets a large whiff of  _ something _ , a decadent smell that definitely isn’t for sale anywhere but the Capitol. Diplomatically, Villanelle says, “Maybe.”

Eve doesn’t know where her anger comes from. She wants to ask why Villanelle was in five, why she was in that school bathroom, but she knows she won’t get an answer. Not now. Perhaps in knowing that her death is so soon ahead of her, Eve’s nerves are almost gone. Frayed. She doesn’t look away as Villanelle stares at her, cold and unblinking eyes hidden beneath a pretty face and pretend innocence. Eve can see right through her.

Something in Villanelle’s face twitches, and then she smiles again. “Oh, Eve,” she breathes, finally breaking eye contact to reach toward the mashed potatoes. “I’m just messing with you.” She scoops a large portion of the food onto her plate. She brushes past Eve, entirely too close, and Eve swears her voice is right in Eve’s ear as she speaks, saying, “You’re mine.”

Villanelle walks off, and Eve stands at the counter long enough for her heart to calm down.

When she returns to the table, she finds the conversation has died down. She sits, and realizes everyone is staring at her, and Elena looks shocked. “What was  _ that _ ?” Elena whispers, and it’s concern Eve is reading on their faces.

Concern for her.

“What?” Eve shakes her head, looking between the three of them. “It was nothing.”

“Nothing,” Hugo repeats, bewildered.

“Eve, she’s perhaps the most deadly one of us,” Jess points out, and Eve fights the urge to find Villanelle’s table across the room.

“Not even perhaps,” Elena mutters. She puts a hand on Eve’s shoulder. “You alright?”

Finally, Eve looks across the room, and of course, she finds Villanelle looking right back. A soft smile on Villanelle’s lips, a challenge if Eve ever saw one. Eve doesn’t smile back. Instead, she turns back to her friends, offering them a small, nervous chuckle. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

 

.

 

Villanelle realizes, as she stands in the elevator taking her to the first floor, that she forgot to say goodbye to her freedom. She’d been so preoccupied with the Games and how she felt about going back, she’d forgotten to breathe in the fresh air. It feels like bugs underneath her skin now, and she itches to go outside. The view from the glass elevator taunts her, almost, and despite her hatred for the Capitol, she wants nothing more than to be outside. To walk amongst the people, hear them talking, feel the warmth of their bodies surrounding her.

She wants to go outside, and she wants to fuck Eve Polastri. 

The elevator hits the first floor, and Villanelle stalks out of it, going immediately to her room. The best part, she thinks, about coming to the Capitol as a caged animal on display is the clothing. She gets loads of new clothes that are designer, and after growing up in Konstantin’s tasteless house, she’s acquired an extremely refined palette. She sifts through her closet, but nothing is right. Nothing feels right under her fingertips, until she finds a sheer top and a deep red blazer to compliment it. 

She compiles a list of the other tributes in her head. None of them would do, right now, and she wishes she could go out and find some poor Capitol citizen to fuck senseless.

Eve would do, but Villanelle knows Eve wouldn’t welcome her in the way Villanelle wants her to. Besides, she wants to torment Eve a little before she takes that step. It’s more fun that way. 

Her thoughts fire wildly, flipping back and forth between the different tributes and how likely they would be to rat on her if she showed up on their floor unannounced. Who would think she was there to kill them? Who would  _ like _ her? Who would --

Villanelle steps in front of the mirror in her large, over-the-top (not that she minds) bathroom, pulls at her skin and sifts her fingers through her hair. She looks great, as always, and gives herself a small smile. She straightens her blazer, then pauses. Her smile widens, as she realizes exactly which tribute she’ll go to tonight.

Normally, the tributes are barred from going to the other floors, but Villanelle is neither normal or a tribute; she is a  _ victor _ . She smiles at the man standing guard on the ground floor, making sure no one leaves, and explains to him that her mentor has had a heart attack. It’s not true, of course, because Konstantin went to bed almost an hour ago, and when he steps into the elevator with her, she slams his head on the wall, lets his eyes glaze over (she gives him a view of the city, pressing his face against the glass), and when he’s dead, they stop on her floor. She drags him into a closet.

She’ll deal with him later, definitely, and they’ll only find the body after she’s been let loose in the arena.

Using the guard’s keycard, she goes to the second floor. The elevator doors slide open, and she’s greeted with absolutely no one.

She hopes she doesn’t run into Anton. He’d talked to her at dinner about being allies, which is something that definitely doesn’t interest her. Instead, she goes to the left, because she thinks all the girls are on the left, and she finds she’s right.

Nadia is in her room, lying on the bed, reading a book.

She looks up when Villanelle appears in the doorway, doesn’t necessarily look surprised to see her, but Villanelle can spot fear from a mile away. There’s fear in Nadia’s eyes, but also  _ interest _ . The spark confirms Villanelle’s choice, and she leans against the doorframe.

“Oksana,” Nadia says simply. She closes her book.

“Nadia, right?”

Nadia nods, then fights a smile from growing on her face. “I was hoping I’d get to talk to you. I --”

“You didn’t come to dinner,” Villanelle says. “I wanted to meet you formally.”

“You -- you did?” Nadia scrambles to the edge of her bed, then, placing her feet on the floor. 

“Yeah. Anton came, tried to talk to me.” At the mention of her counterpart, Nadia scowls. Villanelle quickly says, “I don’t like him.”

“I watched your Games when I was little,” Nadia admits softly. “I remember sitting with my mother and my sister. I told my mother after you won that I wanted to be just like you. She put me in training the next week, and then I…”

“You did it,” Villanelle offers, taking a step into the room. She goes further, sits down on the bed next to Nadia. “You won.”

Villanelle is tired. She’s antsy, anxious to get this over with and feel  _ better _ . Nadia nods, biting her lip, and Villanelle says, “Do you want to work together… during the Games?” She knows that Nadia needs this, for her to let Villanelle take her the way she wants. “Because I’d really like to have you on my side.”

Too quickly, Nadia says, “Yes! Of course, yes. I want nothing more --”

Villanelle cuts her off with a kiss. A kiss Nadia is slow to respond to, but when she does, Villanelle smiles into it, because she was  _ right _ . 

Later, Villanelle lies beside Nadia and lets the younger girl lean against her. She doesn’t usually stay after such trysts, but she feels satiated for now, still mostly clothed. She hadn’t let Nadia touch her (the last person to touch her had been —), but she’d fucked Nadia until Nadia could barely take anymore, and Villanelle flopped over and sighed. Now, she listens to Nadia’s soft, sleepy breathing, and imagines how she will kill her. 

“I hate them,” Nadia admits.

“Remind me how old you are,” Villanelle hums.

“Nineteen. When I won, I thought —“

“Me too,” Villanelle assures Nadia, even though she’d known as soon as she was out of the arena that this would never be over. She adds, “It will be okay.”

“What if I die?” Nadia’s voice is small.

Villanelle shrugs. “Eventually, everyone dies.” Nadia’s silence tells Villanelle that’s not what she wanted to hear. Sighing, Villanelle shifts so her lips move against Nadia’s head. “If you die,” she continues, “your family will be well taken care of. You won’t have to worry about how you act or what you do. If you are dead, the Capitol has no reason to hurt them.”

Nadia hums, content.

Villanelle, on the other hand, quickly grows uncomfortable. She needs to leave. Needs to go to her own room and —

“I have to go,” she tells Nadia, and she’s thankful her voice doesn’t betray her. 

Nadia nods and lets her leave.

Villanelle makes it to her bedroom just in time. She locks the door, and she lands face down in her bed. She screams into the mattress. She screams until her throat is raw, and then she gets up calmly, finds some water, and gulps it down.

 

.

 

When Eve turns eighteen, her celebrity changes. No longer do people talk about her as if she’s a child, and the change is immediate. Niko doesn’t come on her trips to the Capitol, and that year, when she’s there in support of her district, the President pulls her into his office.

The President explains that in the Capitol, there are people who will pay an extraordinary amount of money to be  _ with _ a victor. Eve isn’t quite sure what he means, but he goes on further to tell her that if she refuses, the people closest to her will suffer. 

“Suffer?”

The President pulls out a small tablet and shows her a picture. Her mother. Her old, dying father. Niko.

“We know everything about you,” the President continues. “In order to keep peace in the country, certain sacrifices of our most powerful must be made. You’d be doing your country a disservice by refusing.”

Two years after winning the Hunger Games, Eve Polastri learns what it means to be threatened. It hits her like a brick, shattering her insides and crushing what remains of her hope. She signs away her life for five years, and the President promises not to hurt her family or Niko. Every year during the Games, Eve travels to the Capitol and is a treat for the most wealthy of citizens. When she talks to the other victors, she wants desperately to talk to them about  _ this _ , but no one seems willing.

She marries Niko when she is twenty, and on their wedding night, she lies and tells him that he’s her first. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



	4. monster

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Villanelle shifts past Eve, brushing against her, touching her, and Eve stands there, listening to Villanelle’s footsteps fade. She burns on her arm where Villanelle touched her. Burns on her shoulder.
> 
> Burns deep in her belly.
> 
> “Fuck,” she breathes, finally letting it out. “Fuck.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: suicidal ideation, violence

“It’s your fault,” Max spits, shoving Villanelle back a few steps.

She’s twenty, and Max is thirty- _ whatever _ , and Anna is dead. She thought going to Anna’s house would make her feel better, feel something, but she’d only found Max there, crying, and he’d let her in quietly, almost pathetically. (They had met several times, and she knew he didn’t like her.)

Villanelle goes to Anna’s bedroom, finding the box of letters in the closet, and Max stands in the doorway. And here they are now, Villanelle trapped and Max pinning her in Anna’s room.

“You did this,” he growls, and she doesn’t know what he means because it wasn’t her  _ fault _ Anna got Reaped. It wasn’t her  _ fault _ Anna hadn’t prepared. She lets him push her, attempting to ignore the rage bubbling in her chest, because he’s  _ wrong _ . He shoves her, hard, and she takes it because she knows Anna would want her to.

Max pushes until he stumbles forward, then he’s resting his forehead in the crook of her shoulder, and he smells bad, Villanelle thinks, but she lets him hug her anyway. He cries into her, and she can feel the wet hot of his tears. She wills him to separate from her, and soon, he does, realizing they’ve never been close like this, always tense while Anna attempted to create a bridge between them that refused to be built.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, and she wants to tell him that while he’s not right about Anna’s death being her fault, he’s right to be angry with her.

She’s angry with him. She always has been. As he wipes away his tears, Villanelle decides she’s angry right now. She shoves him back, watches with a sick satisfaction as he slams against the wall. “I fucked her,” Villanelle growls, and confusion flashes across his features. “She  _ loved _ me,” she tells him, before she punches him in the face, hard.

Her knuckles hurt right away. The raw kind of pain that reminds you you’re alive.

As he crumples to the floor, crying again, Villanelle goes to the kitchen and gets a knife. She returns with the knife, kneels next to him, and guts him. She holds him by the neck, plunging the knife into his stomach, and she knows Anna doesn’t care because Anna is dead.

Anna believed in God. Villanelle thinks the soul disappears inside of the body, shrinking until it’s gone. She believes in this because she can see it, has seen it with every person she’s killed, and she knows Anna is not somewhere in the clouds watching.

Anna is dead.

And now, so is Max.

 

.

 

The next morning, a bell sounds throughout the Training Compound, signaling the beginning of the day. Eve wakes slowly, burying her head underneath her pillow, and ignores the way her joints ache. After a while, she gets out of bed, gets dressed, and stands in front of the large mirror in her bathroom. She can’t remember what she looked like when she was sixteen, standing in front of a mirror just like this, but she knows she didn’t have the lines on her face she does now. She pokes at her cheeks, sighs at her hair, and walks out of the room.

She opts to skip breakfast in the cafeteria, instead grabbing a small something from the large table in the common area on her floor. Only when she’s gulped it down with a generous amount of coffee does Bill stumble in.

“Morning,” Eve offers, gesturing to the cup she’d poured for him a bit ago.

He settles in beside her. “Nothing like getting old to make mornings harder.” He grabs the cup, takes a drink, and makes a face. “It’s cold.”

“You’re late.” She smiles as he stands up and goes to get another.

“You’re due at training soon,” he reminds her, poking at the coffee machine on a small table off to the side. It does nothing for him, so Eve stands up and comes over to help. Bill watches silently as she presses a button and the coffee pours out.

“What’s the point of training if I don’t have any skills?” she asks, leaning against the table.

Bill shrugs, takes a sip of coffee, before immediately spitting it out. “Hot!” He opens his mouth, attempting to fan off his tongue, while Eve just watches, amused. When his tongue stops burning, he continues, “To get better at  _ something _ .”

“You know, when I was sixteen, it just felt like gym class. All the Careers throwing around their weapons while me and the others just sat there. I couldn’t even tell the difference between some of the stuff. Didn’t know what half of it was called.”

“Sounds like when I was here,” Bill says, going back to the table. “Don’t worry about it.”

Eve isn’t worried. Mostly because she has no plans to get out of this thing alive, so what’s a little weapon proficiency? She sits down next to Bill, pulling her leg up and pressing her knee to her chest. “Maybe I can get one of the Careers to show me how to use a knife.”

“Just ask politely,” Bill jokes, a beat before he realizes Eve  _ isn’t _ joking. “You’re not serious?”

“What? I mean, Villanelle already likes me.”

This time, when Bill spits out his coffee, it’s not because it’s too hot. “She  _ likes _ you?”

Eve shakes her head. “I think she’s got it out for me, though. Maybe if I ask her to teach me, she’ll stab me in the training room and get us both kicked out.”

Bill and Eve both think for a moment. Bill says, “Would they?”

“Probably not. I’d die and then she’d get some award for killing before the Games even begin.”

Bill sets his cup down on the table, reaching over to put a warm hand on Eve’s shoulder. It feels oddly sincere, and he looks at her. “Don’t do anything stupid today, okay? I’d hate to lose you this early.”

Eve wants to tell him she’s already gone, but instead she smiles. “Don’t worry. Maybe Elena knows something she can show me.”

Yet as Eve waits for the elevator doors to open, she considers her options. She would do her best to make sure someone  _ good _ won these Games. She would help them, either by protecting as best she could or distracting the Careers with herself. She would help  _ someone _ .

She just didn’t know who yet.

 

.

 

The last thing Villanelle wants to do is train.

Back when she was a little girl, she played innocent and stupidly poked at the weapons. Her tactic was surprise, and she played it extremely well. She’d killed ten other tributes in the bloodbath the year she won, because they’d assumed her twelve-year-old self didn’t know the difference between a knife and a sword.

Now, though, she’s twenty-six and everyone knows what she’s capable of. Training, with everyone able to watch her and see her, is boring. She also doesn’t want to see Nadia, as she has the feeling the younger girl will want something from her, something Villanelle doesn’t care to give.

In the end, though, she decides to go, if only to see what Eve will do.

When Villanelle arrives on the training floor, she’s one of the first. It’s still early, but her fellow Careers are already there, and she spots Raymond in a corner swinging an axe. She stalks over to him, and when she gets to him, he grins. It grates at her.

“You are annoying,” she says.

“Then why even come over?” He puts the axe down, and she makes note of his pudgy stomach and bald head.

She doesn’t tell him she’s here to assess his weaknesses, instead opting to shrug. “Do you want to team up?”

The question throws him off guard. “With you?” he asks, still a bit in disbelief.

She shrugs again.

“You know,” he starts, a weird look blooming on his face, “I heard you last night.” He leans in. “I never took you for a screamer.”

She wants to hit him, but up in the corner, high above the training floor, there is a window where several men and women look down at them, assessing them. She knows they are the Gamemakers, and they are another reason for her not to show everyone what she can do. She resists her impulse to hurt him, instead smiling. “I take back my offer.”

Instantly, his face falls. “No, Oksana, I didn’t mean --”

“It’s Villanelle,” she hisses, stepping closer to him. There’s a thrill in her chest when he steps back.

“Villanelle,” he corrects, putting a hand up diplomatically. “I was only joking.”

She regards him and shrugs for a third time. Flippantly. “I’m not. I no longer want to be on your team.”

She turns and begins to walk away, and behind her, Raymond whines, “But why?”

“Because,” she says, turning back to face him, “You’re  _ ugly _ .”

 

.

 

Eve and Elena meet in the elevator, and Elena tells Eve how she barely slept last night, how her mentor has nothing of importance to say, and even goes further to update Eve on things back home, detailing the lives of her siblings, her parents, all of it. Eve zones out for most of it, however, watching the Capitol through the glass in the elevator. She wonders what it would be like to jump off the top of the Training Compound.

No. She shuts that thought out of her mind because she has a plan for the Games. 

“Eve,” Elena says, pulling her back in. “Where did you go?”

“Nowhere,” Eve sighs, letting her back hit the glass.

The elevator lands on the thirteenth floor, doors opening to reveal an already full training floor. It’s just like Eve remembers it: stations set up with different skills, and of course the Careers have found the weapons.

It’s just as intimidating as Eve’s first time, because she had no skills back then, no desire to learn.

What  _ is _ different, though, is the window high above the floor where several men and women watch them. “Those are the Gamemakers?” Eve asks, looking to Elena and back to the people above them.

Elena follows her gaze. “I guess.”

Eve recognizes one of them in particular, but she can’t be sure at this distance. “Is that…”

It is.

High above them, a man (who still looks like a boy) with short cropped hair, khaki shorts, and a plain tee. Kenny. He suddenly looks agitated, worried, and next to Eve, Elena gasps. 

“Does that mean --” Eve looks at Elena, eyes wide. “I thought it was going to be Carolyn.”

“Me, too,” Elena says. “It’s been Carolyn for, like, ever.”

They’ve barely moved past the elevator, so when the doors open behind them, Hugo almost crashes into their backs as he exits. “Woah,” he says and smiles. “What’s the party for?”

Eve snaps out of it, shaking her head. She casts another glance toward Kenny, who looks thoroughly mortified, and wishes she could talk to him. Elena looks about the same, albeit with a darker look on her face. She feels for them, instantly, because she knows their history. 

Hugo looks between the two of them. “Okay. Who died?”

“No one,” Eve says instantly. She grabs Elena’s arm, forcing a smile, and attempts to change the subject. “Where should we go?”

“I need a drink,” Elena mutters, and Eve thinks this is a terrible way to start the day.

Regardless, she pulls Elena to a small station where there are many ropes, presumably to learn how to tie various knots. She pretends to not feel Villanelle’s eyes on her; she noticed Villanelle watching as soon as they’d walked from the elevator. She wants to go over there, say something stupid, force Villanelle’s attention on her, but she knows going to her will only make Villanelle lose interest.

She’s guessing Villanelle wants most what she can’t have, so she’s not giving herself over any time soon.

Soon enough, Eve and Elena are sitting next to each other, cross-legged, tying knots. “I just can’t believe it,” Elena says, glancing furtively back up at Kenny and the other Gamemakers. “He just, what, got a huge promotion and didn’t tell us?”

“Maybe it’s happened since we got Reaped,” Eve offers.

Kenny being in the bubble with the other Gamemakers means only one thing: he’s designing the Arena. After the disaster that was Eve’s Games, the second-in-command Gamemaker was promoted, and thus began Carolyn Marten’s, Kenny’s mother, reign as Head Gamemaker, and she’d been Head Gamemaker ever since, designing Arenas that were fantastic, clever, and most of all, dangerous. Carolyn Martens is a force, but Kenny is awkward, kind, and the last person Eve would expect in this position. When she’d met Kenny after her Games, she’d liked him instantly.

Both Eve and Elena knew where Kenny was heading, when they met him. His mother is famous, and he had always been next in line.

But they never guessed he would be designing an Arena for  _ them _ .

“Doubt it,” Elena snaps, pissed not only at Kenny, but Eve guesses the world, too. “He probably pussied out and didn’t want to tell us.”

Eve doesn’t bother arguing, because she knows whenever Elena sees Kenny next they’re both going to go through it. 

Looking up, Elena lets out a breath. “You’ve got a stalker,” she says, and Eve looks up again to find Villanelle staring at her.

This time, Eve lets herself look, and Villanelle doesn’t bother pretending she wasn’t staring. She smiles at Eve, and Eve swears she’s wearing lipstick, her lips are so red. She lifts a hand, waves at Eve, and Eve looks back down at her badly tied knot.

 

.

 

Villanelle doesn’t think about how much Eve reminds her of Anna.

Because they’re different, she knows they are. Anna is dead. Anna is  _ dead _ . Eve is here, Eve is alive, and Eve will be the end of her, if Villanelle doesn’t get her shit together. She stares at Eve across the room and watches Eve pointlessly tie knots. Of course, Villanelle isn’t doing much training herself, instead choosing to sit on the ground and stretch.

She’s so focused on Eve, she hardly notices when Nadia wanders up to her. “What are you doing?” she asks, sitting next to Villanelle.

Villanelle had enjoyed making Nadia moan; it had been remarkably easy. But she’s never been one to bring her playthings out of the bedroom, and Nadia is, at best, annoying.

“Nothing,” Villanelle responds, decidedly not looking at Eve.

Nadia is pretty, perhaps, in a small kind of way. Villanelle thinks about brushing her mousy brown hair out of her face, but decides against it.

“Do you want to spar?” Nadia’s eyes are hopeful, so Villanelle shrugs. Why not?

Nadia stands, offers a hand to Villanelle, and god, Villanelle hopes Eve is looking at the way she stands too close to Nadia. The way she holds Nadia’s hand as they walk to the mat. The way Villanelle ties back her hair and smiles at Nadia, who looks so excited she’s about to burst.

Villanelle stands up straight, unassuming, while Nadia takes a more fluid fighting stance. Knees bent, hands protecting her face, a determined look in her eyes. It’s almost cute.

“Ready?” Nadia asks, and Villanelle nods.

Nadia telegraphs, preparing her movement, and Villanelle reads her easily. The younger girl lunges forward, Villanelle takes a small step to the side, dodging, and grabs Nadia’s arm, twisting it hard, pinning it behind her back. Nadia lets out a yelp, almost crumbles to her knees, but Villanelle lets go, her grip vanishing.

Righting herself, Nadia rolls her shoulders. Villanelle could (and has before) do this all day.

Nadia punches, Villanelle deflects, and they have a few good hits between them before Villanelle takes advantage of a weakness, sweeps her foot behind Nadia’s ankle, and stabs an elbow between her ribs. 

In one fluid moment, Nadia is coughing and falling hard on the ground.

“Come on,” Villanelle urges, a bit more excited now. She can feel her blood pumping, a natural adrenaline response, and she knows what will happen if she gets too excited.

She feels almost feral, like she  _ needs _ this, and despite herself, she looks up, eyeing the room with hair falling in her face, and she catches Eve staring. Good. That’s  _ really  _ good, and she turns back to Nadia, who --

Lands a hard punch to Villanelle’s cheek.

Villanelle hits the floor, hard, and gets to her feet instantly, all eyes on her opponent. She’s excited and  _ pissed _ , now, and Nadia must see it because she stutters, “Sorry -- I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Villanelle growls, and she knocks Nadia to the ground without another word. She shoves her face into it, hard, until Nadia taps out.

Standing and rolling her shoulders, Villanelle walks away from the mat, her hands clenched into fists. Anyone who is looking at her avoids her eyes, except Eve.

Villanelle spits blood.

 

.

 

After dinner, Eve walks into her bedroom and finds Villanelle sitting on her bed. Fear jumps inside of her, and she fights the urge to flee. Villanelle has her hair down, locks pin straight, and she wears something casual yet expensive. The beginnings of a bruise are already blooming on her cheek.

“Hello,” Villanelle says, and Eve wants to die.

Eve stands in the doorway, unmoving, and Villanelle waits for a response. “You being scared of me is getting very boring.” When Eve says nothing, Villanelle sighs. “I’m not here to hurt you, Eve.”

“Then what?” Eve’s words come out as more of a croak than anything.

When Villanelle looks at Eve, she looks like she wants to rip Eve open and pull out what’s inside. Figure her out, breathe her in. It makes Eve feel exposed, almost. 

In the back of her mind, she decides she will help Jess. She’ll protect Jess and to her best to make sure Jess gets out alive. Villanelle stares at her and Eve makes this decision, because Jess is a better person than anyone else here. Eve will throw herself to the sharks and let Villanelle have her, but in doing so, she’ll protect everyone else. She has to do this.

Sighing, Villanelle stands and crosses the room. She stops when she’s too close to Eve. Before Villanelle says anything, Eve says, “Why are you like this?”

Indecision flickers across Villanelle’s face. “How do you mean?”

“What were you so angry about, when you were twelve? To kill all those people.” Villanelle stares at her. Eve’s fingers shake at her sides. Right here, right now, could be the end of her life. She knows Villanelle could do it.

Then, Villanelle smiles. A soft, disarming smile. “I was surviving, Eve. Like everyone else.” Villanelle smells like death. Too sweet, sickly. “You think you’re better than everyone, don’t you? You think you’re better than me.”

_ Yes _ , Eve wants to say. “You  _ like _ this,” Eve insists.

“Are you telling me you don’t?” Villanelle doesn’t let Eve answer her, even though devastation screams through Eve’s chest. She thinks about Dom, and her palm  _ itches _ . Her thumb finds the scar there, rubs across it. “We are the same,” Villanelle continues, softer. She reaches up and puts a knuckle to Eve’s cheek. Eve jerks her head away, and Villanelle smiles wider. “We are the same,” she says again. “Whether you want to believe it or not.”

Eve shakes her head. “You’re a monster.” There’s the unspoken  _ and I’m not _ .

A laugh bubbles in Villanelle’s chest, and she shows her teeth. Eve thinks about animals baring their teeth in a threatening way, wonders if other species recognize bared teeth as both wonderful and frightening. Despite everything, Villanelle is gorgeous, and she looks  _ normal _ , and perhaps all the tributes from the Career districts are like this, but when Villanelle laughs, Eve imagines she could be like everyone else.

“I’m not,” Villanelle counters. “Not any more than you are.”

“What are you going to do,” Eve murmurs, because she wants nothing more than to curl up in her bed, “kill me?”

“I could,” Villanelle says, coming even closer. 

Eve lets out a breath. “Yesterday you said ‘maybe.’”

Villanelle is too close and reminds Eve of those brilliantly colored flowers, both disarming and deadly. “But I won’t.” Villanelle looks vulnerable all of a sudden, her expression morphing into uncertainty, and Eve wonders  _ why _ , before it’s gone and the cockiness is back. Villanelle says, “Not yet.”

She shifts past Eve, brushing against her,  _ touching  _ her, and Eve stands there, listening to Villanelle’s footsteps fade. She burns on her arm where Villanelle touched her. Burns on her shoulder.

Burns deep in her belly.

“Fuck,” she breathes, finally letting it out. “ _ Fuck. _ ”

 

.

 

Villanelle’s back slams against her own door, her breathing hard. She scrambles to undo the buttons on her pants, slips a hand between her legs, and rubs at herself furiously, squeezing her eyes shut. She pants, her breath catches, and through the door, Konstantin says, “Villanelle?”

Ice cold, Villanelle shouts, “Go away!” and she recognizes she sounds like a child, hears Konstantin  _ hmmph _ , but she doesn’t care, because  _ oh, God _ \--

Eve’s hair, falling across her shoulders.  _ You’re a monster _ . The soft curve of Eve’s throat. The blood underneath it. Eve’s hard stare and her beating heart. Villanelle’s fingers moving fast, hard, slipping further down and into herself. Eve’s breath on her lips. Eve’s  _ smell _ , god, and Eve’s  _ hair _ . Villanelle imagines gripping it, imagines pushing Eve to her knees, imagines pressing Eve’s mouth against her, Eve’s tongue diving into her. 

_ You’re a monster _ .

Villanelle fucks herself, comes with a quick, gasping moan, before she slides to the floor.

  
  


.

 

Anna stares at everything when they first arrive in the Capitol. Scared, yet in awe.

Oksana feels like she’s seeing everything for the first time again through Anna’s eyes. She wishes it was under different circumstances, wishes Anna was visiting with her instead of getting ready to compete in the Hunger Games.

Anna is completely out of her depth, and Oksana wants nothing more than to lead her through it, teach her everything, but she  _ can’t _ , not when Anna won’t look at her, won’t touch her, won’t even let her into the same room.

The first night they are in the Capitol, Oksana leans against Anna’s door, sitting in the hallway, and speaks through the wall. She recites poetry in French, because she’s tired of begging Anna to let her in. She can hear Anna crying through the door, wishes she could hold her, reassure her, give her  _ something _ that would make her feel better. 

“Anna,” Oksana breathes, her temple cold against the door. “ _ S’il te plait _ .”

Finally, fucking finally, Oksana hears the doorknob turn. She scrambles to her feet, just as the door swings open, and she finds her love with tear-stained cheeks and puffy eyes. Oksana walks in and immediately pulls Anna close, and Anna doesn’t hug back, not at first, until she holds Oksana as tight as she can.

“It’s okay,” Oksana breathes, because she’s older now and she knows this is what people like to hear. Herself, she wants to hear her odds, she wants to talk strategy, but she knows Anna does not want this.

They go to bed, and Oksana pretends not to notice when Anna shies from her touch.

They kiss, and Anna cries against Oksana’s lips.

“You will be fine,” Oksana tells her. “Killing isn’t hard, it’s --” She explains to Anna how it feels to watch the life drain away, noticing too late the dread on Anna’s features. 

Anna had been the only teacher at the school that didn’t treat Oksana like she was different. The other teachers worshipped her; Oksana was incredibly talented, and everyone recognized it and wanted to tell her. Anna, she’d never mentioned Oksana’s time in the Games, and it never bothered Oksana that they never talked about it.

This is the first time she talks about it.

Anna, she says, “You’re a monster,” and it hits, hard.

Oksana doesn’t know what she means. So, she says nothing, searching Anna’s face for a feeling,  _ something _ to go off of, and Anna pulls her close, face wet, kisses her, and says, “ _ Monster, monster, monster _ ,” until Oksana kisses her back, muffles her voice, and slips a hand between her legs, because she doesn’t know what else to do.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did u guys hear about the new hunger games book? i'm not even necessarily a fan of the series but @ suzanne collins please make it gay
> 
> shorter chapter this time. next one is a lot longer. i'm trying to stay a chapter ahead of this story, but right now it looks like their time before the games is gonna be longer than the games itself. will this fic be long? literally so fucking long.


	5. don't look now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eve looks tired, dark shadows under her eyes, but otherwise, Villanelle thinks she looks beautiful. The thought digs into her, so she forces other thoughts, remembers the defiance in Eve’s eyes, and instead of thinking Eve is beautiful, she thinks about Eve's eyes fluttering closed, the spark disappearing from them.

Eve cries on the train, remembering the feeling of her mother’s soft hands all over her face, and distant father wearing his stoic and blank expression of her father. She had hugged her mother until the Peacekeepers grabbed at her, pulling them apart, and she’d stepped forward to hug her father, but he had stepped back, and in doing so, confirmed everything Eve had believed her entire life. 

She cries because she saw emotion in her father’s eyes, if not in his expression, and she wishes she had hugged him anyway, despite the hurt inside of her. 

There’s a soft knock on her door of the traincar and Bill, as he’d introduced himself, peeks into the room she’s hidden herself in. He looks guilty, sad, and something else Eve can’t identify. Nervous, one of his legs jiggles in place.

Eve is sixteen, and she is going to die.

“I’m supposed to, uh, show you the other Reapings,” Bill explains. “Ehm, if you don’t want to see them, we really don’t have to.”

She knows how this is supposed to work and knows she should watch them. See who she’s up against. She doesn’t  _ want  _ to, though, because she’s too busy prepping her mind with thoughts of death and what it might feel like. But when she looks up at Bill, a boy she remembers hearing about when she was younger, after he won, she can tell he desperately doesn’t want to be here. Part of her wants to believe he doesn’t want to be here, with  _ her _ , but Eve is rational, even now, and knows Bill would rather not be here altogether.

“What does it feel like?”

“What?” he asks her, hovering in the doorway.

“When you… kill someone.” 

“Oh,” he says, and suddenly, he sounds quite small. He leans against the doorframe, shifting his weight. “Are you sure you… Well, I guess you kind of have to know.” He talks mostly to himself, then nods. “It, uh, it’s awful. The other tributes I killed, there isn’t a night I don’t see their faces. I replay the moments over and over and think about how I could’ve done it differently.” He stops, a bit lost, and then finds her eyes. “It’s terrible.”

Eve doesn’t know what to say, other than, “I don’t want to do that.”

“You have to,” Bill says immediately. “That’s the worst part. You have to.”

 

.

  
  


The tundra takes no survivors. As Eve walks through the blinding snow, she hears a constant monologue in her head, replaying over and over again. 

_ “This year’s Arena was, quite possibly, the most boring one yet. Head Gamemaker Maximus has been replaced with a new player this year, by the name of Carolyn Martens. We have Carolyn here with us today.”  _

Eve feels the cold, but not really. A distant, fake feeling of cold, the way one feels when they think about how cold feels. She stumbles forward, letting a gust of wind push at her, and despite being back in the Arena, she’s in her forties, no longer sixteen, and everything about her feels logical, feels real yet not real. 

_ “Carolyn, how would you critique the Arena building of the last Games?” _

_ “Well, I think it was quite the undertaking. In theory, something of this caliber sounds fantastic. Thrilling, even. In practice, however, I believe audiences found it  _ **_boring_ ** _.” _

Boring, yes, Eve thinks. She’s never been more bored in her life, her feet digging deeper and deeper into the snow with every step. The next part of this is her least favorite, because she knows the way it goes, yet it happens the same each time.

There’s a gust of wind, and cold, cold fingers, and she crashes to her knees. They ache now, age winding them down, and her fingers scrape the ground. Stinging. There’s the  _ boom _ of a cannon --

_ “Boring is exactly the word we would use. Some even called it dull.” _

_ “Did they now?” _

_ “We won’t force you to bad mouth your predecessor, but what can we expect from you, as the  _ **_new_ ** _ Head Gamemaker?” _

Eve looks up, sees nothing, until a hand reaches out and grabs her hair, pulling it tight at her scalp. Eve cries out, the howling of the wind swallowing the sound, and she fights back, feeling a larger body heaving against her. A knife angles to her, Eve reaches out and grabs it, feeling the blade press against her palm, and when she looks up, it isn’t Dom’s face staring at her. 

Red lips, a cheshire smile.

_ “I would say, expect surprises. The Hunger Games are nothing if not unexpected.” _

Villanelle stares down at Eve, the snow suddenly gone. They stand in the middle of a large clearing, nothing for miles, just white, hard ground beneath them, and Villanelle’s knife cuts deeper into Eve’s hand.

“Are you going to kill me, Eve?”

Eve nods, twisting the knife out of Villanelle’s grip, shoving it forward. She pushes forward with an intent, a murderous need growing inside of her to rid the world of this terrible being, and just as the knife finds Villanelle’s sternum, the body in front of her shifts and turns into a skinny, teenage boy. He stares at her with wide eyes, and she swears he disappears right in front of her. She watches the light die, feels the blood coat her hands, leaking out of him, and Eve screams, “No!”

“No!” she yells, hoarse, waking up in an unfamiliar bed. She looks around, realizes she’s in her bedroom within the Training Compound, and wills her heart to stop slamming around inside of her chest.

Instantly, she wants Niko’s arms around her. It’s the first time she’s had this nightmare without waking up beside him. Except it’s not  _ this _ nightmare, it’s something else entirely.

If she had woken up beside him, Niko would ask, “The same one?”

Eve would start to agree, but then trail off, say, “No… Not really.”

But if he asked what was different about it, she wouldn’t know what to tell him. How to tell him. She doesn’t even know if she would  _ want _ to tell him.

Unlike Eve, Niko had never been interested in knowing what it felt like to kill someone.

_ Wet _ , Eve thinks. Killing is wet, maybe too messy. 

Bill had told her, once, that killing felt awful. Eve agrees with his assessment, but this time, in this dream, killing had felt powerful. It’s because Villanelle is a bad person, must be, and getting rid of her is not only the right thing to do, but the only thing to do. Could she actually kill Villanelle? Would killing Villanelle keep her up at night, like killing Dom does? 

And what was that about Carolyn Martens?  _ Kenny _ , Eve realizes. 

It’s Kenny’s first Hunger Games as Head Gamemaker, and Eve wishes she could call him, if only to tell him what a terrible job he’ll do. She wants to say,  _ no snow _ , because the cold had been the most annoying part of her time in the Arena. 

There’s a soft tap on Eve’s door, and she jumps.

“Eve?” Bill’s voice, creased with age. “I heard shouting.”

“Come in,” she calls softly.

He does. “Are you okay?”

She nods, watching as Bill sits on the edge of the bed. She can tell he doesn’t know what to say, or at least, that’s what she thinks until he says, “You know, it’ll be okay.” He puts a soft hand on her knee. “I promise.”

“Can you even promise that?”

Bill shakes his head. “I’m doing it anyway.”

 

.

 

Villanelle sits alone on the first floor, wishing she had a view out of the windows other than the street. Watching the people in the Capitol walk past, live their lives, and sometimes attempt to look into the blacked out windows of the Training Compound, hoping to see a victor’s face -- it makes her sleepy.

She hears the elevator  _ ding _ and wonders why Konstantin is allowed to leave and go where he pleases, but she is not. 

He has a surly look on his face when he comes around the corner, arms full of files. He drops them on the table, making her fork  _ clink _ against her plate, and she licks her fingers and says, “What are these?”

“Presents,” he responds.

Her eyes light up, and she reaches for a file. She opens it, revealing a comprehensive list of Arena plans, and she smiles. “Konstantin, you shouldn’t have.”

Sitting next to her, he says, “I almost didn’t.”

She continues reading, hoping her practically eidetic memory won’t fail her now, and then looks a him. “No, really, how did you manage this? You are a lot of things, but sneaky is hardly one of them.”

Scowling, he begins to eat. “I can be sneaky.”

Villanelle stares at him. He avoids her gaze, shoveling food into his mouth. “You didn’t,” she accuses, and his silence tells her everything. “Ew, Konstantin,” Villanelle whines, gesturing to her food. “I am eating.”

“I said  _ nothing _ ,” he grumbles. Then, as an afterthought, “You have told me worse during meals.”

“Yes, but my sexual adventures are  _ interesting _ . Yours are gross.” Villanelle pulls the file back, reads more, but her curiosity gets the best of her. “It was Carolyn, right?”

Konstantin’s blatant ignoring her is her answer. She smiles, pleased at being right, and continues reading.

They have encountered Carolyn before, when they traveled to the Capitol for previous Games, after Villanelle won. Villanelle hates the weird tension between them, almost more than she hates the way they whisper when they are around her, like they do not want her to hear what they are saying.

The file is just a blueprint of the Arena, with only just a few descriptions of traps. They look like early plans, and Villanelle knows they could’ve been changed since this, but she hopes they aren’t. The most important thing is the Arena seems to be cut into quadrants, though the difference between them isn’t written. Villanelle begins to plan.

“Thank you,” she says softly, still reading, and she pretends to not notice Konstantin’s small smile.

After breakfast with Konstantin, Villanelle decides to go to the cafeteria as well, mostly because she’s still hungry, but also partly to see Eve.

Instead of Eve, though, Villanelle walks out of the elevator and straight into Nadia.

“Hello!” Nadia says, excited, and she reaches for Villanelle’s hand. Villanelle lets her grab it, hold it briefly, before taking it back and surveying the floor.

There, sitting with three others, is Eve. She looks tired, dark shadows under her eyes, but otherwise, she looks beautiful. The thought digs into Villanelle, so she forces other thoughts, remembers the defiance in Eve’s eyes, and instead of thinking Eve is beautiful, she imagines Eve’s eyes fluttering closed, the spark disappearing from them.

_ That _ makes her think about Eve underneath her, and Eve gasping, breathing hard, voice croaking, “ _ Oksana _ ,” and --

Where the fuck did that come from?

Villanelle stiffens, looks back at Nadia, and asks her, “Do you want to…?” She tilts her head toward another room, another hallway, anywhere out of sight.

Nadia takes a long moment to understand, and then her cheeks are red, and she nods softly.

As she guides Nadia out of the room, she hopes Eve is watching. As she presses Nadia against a wall and claps a hand over her mouth to muffle the sounds, she hopes Eve is  _ wondering _ . Villanelle keeps her eyes open, so she doesn’t imagine Eve between her and the wall, instead focusing on Nadia and Nadia only. Except when they’re finished and Nadia’s legs are shaking and they head back to the main arena, she hopes Eve sees them and understands.

One look across the room confirms it. Eve, watching, looking away extremely quickly when Villanelle looks at her, and a soft red tinge on her neck.

Villanelle smiles, satisfied, and makes her way to the buffet. Nadia follows, almost like a puppy, and leans giddily into Nadia. Villanelle is only interested in putting on a show for  _ Eve _ , not for everyone else, so she not-so-subtly pushes Nadia off of her.

“We should make a plan,” Nadia suggests, as they sit down.

Villanelle pokes at her food, not really hungry now that she’s gotten what she wants. “No plan,” she tells Nadia. “Not until we’re in.”

“What about for the beginning?”

The Bloodbath. In her first Games, Villanelle killed five other tributes during the Bloodbath and almost died herself. The first ten minutes of the Hunger Games were, perhaps, the most dangerous, and Villanelle thrived in that sort of environment, where every second meant life or death. She agrees with Nadia, though. They should have a plan. At least for the beginning.

“Okay,” she agrees. “Do you have any ideas?”

She’d meant to watch Nadia’s Hunger Games the night before, as a refresher, but Eve had made her angry. She searches through her memory for the first time she’d watched it, only a couple years ago. Nadia is good with hand to hand, as proven by yesterday, but could use more practice with weapons. Villanelle can help with.

Nadia chews her lip, deep in thought, and some part of Villanelle knows Nadia will do whatever she asks.

“I was thinking,” Nadia begins, “that we could ask Diego to join us.”

Diego? Villanelle looks around, confused for only a second, before she remembers. “From four?”

Nadia nods shyly.

Shrugging, Villanelle says, “If you must. I don’t really care either way.” And she doesn’t, not really. She doesn’t have plans to stick with them long, and if Diego is a problem, Villanelle will solve him. 

“Okay, so,” Nadia says. “What if we plan to take the Cornucopia and hold it, keeping most of the weapons.”

A bad idea, Villanelle thinks. She shakes her head. “We should take what we need and get out.”

Nadia’s face falls. “But in your Games, you --”

“I was twelve,” Villanelle reminds her. Flippantly, she continues, “I didn’t know what I was doing.” A lie. The only thing Villanelle had wanted when she was in the Games was to kill and to kill  _ well _ . She’d succeeded, better than she had planned, and then she had been offered a great job afterward, better suited for her than anyone else.

“You won, though,” Nadia points out. “What do you like to use best?”

Villanelle knows she’s asking about weapons. “Knives, mostly. Perhaps a gun, but they won’t have those in there.”

“I always wondered why.”

“Too clean,” Villanelle mumbles through a mouthful of food. “They want things to be bloody. Wouldn’t be much of a show if I just found everyone in my sniper scope and shot them, would it?”

Her tone is a little too harsh, a little too condescending, and she watches Nadia retreat into herself. 

“What do you like?” Villanelle asks, because she knows showing interest will make Nadia perk up.

“I thought about a bow,” she says. “Maybe a small knife, but a bow could be like a sniper rifle, in a way.”

Villanelle nods, growing bored. She looks over in Eve’s direction, watching now as only Eve and the pregnant one are at the table, talking quietly. Almost as if she feels Villanelle’s eyes on her, Eve looks up, connects her gaze with Villanelle’s, before she turns back to the other woman.

Nadia follows Villanelle’s look. “Who is she?”

“Nobody.”

Nadia presses her lips together. “You  _ like _ her,” she almost whines.

“Stop that,” Villanelle growls. “I do not.” Softer, she says, “I like you, okay? Very much.” 

“Then why do you keep looking at her?”

Villanelle makes an imperceptible face, thinking this through. Finally, she sighs, and Nadia is hanging onto her every word, hoping to hear something reassuring. “I want to kill her, okay? I’ve wanted to since the beginning.”

“Oh.” It comes out like Nadia’s been punched in the stomach. Then, Nadia is relieved. “Okay. I can help.”

Something akin to panic shoves at Villanelle’s heart, constricting it. Flashes of someone else’s hands on Eve, someone else touching her -- no, someone else  _ hurting _ her. “No,” she says quickly, “I want her to myself. She offended me very deeply a few years ago, I need to return the favor.” 

Nadia nods, seemingly content, and continues eating.

As much as Villanelle doesn’t want to, her gaze shifts over to Eve once again, except Eve is no longer there, and her table is empty.

 

.

 

They get three full days of training. It’s only the second morning, yet Eve feels as though she’s been hit by a truck. 

They are allowed to spend most of the day on the training floor, or none of it, if they wish. Eve spends the second morning with Bill before she decides she feels too guilty to keep to herself. Plus, she has to let Jess know she wants to team up, so she goes to breakfast to sit with her newfound friends. She fights both the urge to spend as much time with them as possible, Elena especially, and to distance herself. 

They’re all going to die, and Eve doesn’t want it to hurt as much as she guesses it’s going to. 

Eve spends her day going into training, working for a bit, and then going back to her floor to watch the other tributes’ previous games. The best she can do is study them and speculate what they’ll do next.

She starts watching Raymond’s games, but then quickly switches to Villanelle’s. 

Villanelle is, for lack of a better word, absolutely ruthless. 

The Reaping is different in the Career districts, and Eve knows this, but it’s a lot more clear when she watches. First, the tribute’s name is drawn from the glass bowl. Then, the escort turns to the crowd and asks if there are any volunteers. Hundreds of hands shoot up.

The affair takes a lot longer than it does in Eve’s district. The volunteers are rounded up and then another name is drawn. That name is Oksana Astankova, and she’s twelve, with thick, dark hair (which surprises Eve), but there’s a gleam in her eye.

The volunteer and the tribute are put in a sealed off arena where the Career districts start the games by shedding blood. Villanelle kills the other girl easily, and Eve knows she’d trained for that moment her entire life. And then there’s an older man standing beside her, with white hair (though he can’t be more than forty), and together, they are paraded in front of the crowd.

Oksana plays the child card. Through the entire pre-Games festivities, Eve watches as she smiles a soft, childish smile, talks about her time at school and how she’s an orphan, and the crowd loves her. Everyone forgets what she did to the tribute from her district, and by the time the Games begin, Oksana is entirely underestimated.

That’s how she kills more tributes than Eve can count in the Bloodbath.

She rewinds and counts. Ten.

Eve thinks about ten people gone, just like that, before she shuffles to the bathroom and throws up. 

At lunch, Eve attempts to take in as much of her new friends as possible. She stares a little too long at Elena everytime she smiles. She laughs too loud when Hugo makes a bad joke. She places her hand on Jess’s just to feel her, a reminder of life. 

And then, there’s Villanelle. Who is ignoring her. So intently that the others notice.

“What’d you do to her?” Elena asks, as they all sit down with their food. 

Moments ago, at the breakfast bar, Eve had whispered a polite, “Good morning,” and Villanelle had said nothing, only taking a moment to glance between her and Elena.

“I don’t know,” Eve responds, because she doesn’t.

Why did Villanelle start anything in the first place, if she was just going to do this? Eve pretends it doesn’t bother her when the girl from two sits with Villanelle at her table, or when sometimes Anton sits there, too. Or when Raymond says something to Villanelle to make her smile.

Mostly, it digs at Eve because her plan is falling apart. It had been pretty clear in the beginning. She was going to make Villanelle hate her, make Villanelle focus on her entirely, and then, perhaps, she wouldn’t attempt to break the record she set in her own Games and kill more than she did the last time. An obsessed Villanelle seems better than a bloodthirsty one, at least in Eve’s mind, but now Villanelle is  _ ignoring _ her, and Eve’s plan is crumbling.

Eve settles on her second plan, then, because it’s as good as any.

Early in the afternoon, Eve finds Jess sitting at the camouflage station. Eve sits next to her, and says, “Hey, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Jess looks up, then puts a brief hand to her belly. “Sorry,” she breathes, gritting her teeth in pain, “Feeling some hard kicks lately.”

And Eve’s heart  _ aches _ .

After the Hunger Games, Eve vowed never to have children. There were some moments, though, when she missed her period and she’d run up to Niko and cried, cried, while he held her and told her it would be okay. But those moments always turned into her period just being late, a child never coming, and Eve told herself every time it was meant to be. If a baby somehow joined their lives, it would be meant to be, also.

“What did you want to talk about?” Jess asks, and Eve forces herself to tear her eyes up and away from the life growing inside of Jess.

“Did they say anything? When you were Reaped. About the…”

She doesn’t need to say  _ baby _ . Jess gets it. Her soft expression hardens, just a little, and Eve hopes she isn’t ruining the semblance of trust between them.

Stiffly, Jess shakes her head. “No one’s mentioned it. It feels like some sort of cruel trick.”

“When are you due?”

“After,” Jess says simply, and Eve knows what she’s talking about. After the Games. After Jess dies.

A long moment passes, as the words compile in Eve’s head, twisting into sentences. “I want to help you,” she says. 

“How do you mean?”

“Like,” Eve continues, waving her hands a bit, trying to figure it out. “I don’t have a strategy or anything, but I don’t care if I live, so, I want to help  _ you _ .”

“Oh, Eve,” Jess interrupts, and her tone is dismissive, like it’s a lost cause.

“No, really.” Eve nods to herself, because she knows this is what she wants to do. “In any way I can. I’m not that good, but if someone’s there, they can, you know, kill me before they kill you, and you can run away. Or something.”

Jess looks at her for a long moment. Eve waits, feeling a pulsing in her chest, resting just between what she believes are her lungs. Did she make the wrong decision? Did she offend Jess? She watches Jess dip the tip of her finger into some paint, swirling it around. A deep, forest green.

Instead of giving Eve something resembling an answer, Jess says, “Have you tried this yet?”

Eve shakes her head. “At least think about what I said, okay?”

“I will.” Jess paints a bit onto her arm. 

Eve goes back to her floor, watches more of Villanelle’s games, and then returns to the training floor in the evening to reunite with Elena. When Eve grabs an axe, Elena wanders over and says, “Ooh, Eve, this lumberjack look is kind of doing it for me.”

Eve laughs, loudly, and Elena attempts to grab the axe from her. They grapple with it for a minute, and then when Eve looks up, Villanelle is standing next to a large stand of knives, holding one in her hand, and staring at her. Well, staring at the axe in Eve’s hands. Caught, Villanelle looks away, down at the knife in her hand.

Would she slice it across Eve’s skin, or bury it inside of her?

Eve drops the axe to the floor, and Elena looks at her weird. “Eve, you okay?”

She nods.

 

.

 

Villanelle is too busy studying sixteen-year-old Eve Polastri to focus on the one right in front of her.

She spends the second afternoon of training reviewing the footage from the other tributes’ previous Games, focusing on Eve’s the most. She hopes to figure out what Eve will do, where she will go, who she will team up with. The footage gives her almost nothing. Eve, it turns out, is very good at hiding, and Villanelle wonders if she will do the same thing this time as well.

Hiding is boring.

But focusing on this Eve instead of the one she keeps masturbating about keeps her head clear. This Eve is predictable, moving from one hiding spot to another. 

Real Eve, it turns out, is unpredictable. On the third day, Villanelle steps out of the elevator on the training floor and immediately spots Eve across the large room.

Instead of giving Eve a small smile, which is what she  _ wants _ to do, Villanelle turns and goes to the stations with the bows and arrows, mostly because it is empty, and also because she’s probably a bit rusty. She doesn’t expect Eve to materialize behind her, just as she’s picked out a really cool bow, but there she is. Standing there. Staring at her.

Eve is confusing.

Villanelle gives her a onceover, then raises a brow. “Hello.”

“Hi,” says Eve, a bit uncertain.

“Could I ask you a question, Eve?” Villanelle goes off book because she is curious.

Eve looks at her quizzically. “I mean. Sure?”

“Is the man who hugged you during your Reaping the same as the boy from your first Games?” And it hits Eve hard, Villanelle sees, the words rippling through her like a long, delicious paper cut. Villanelle gives herself a mental high five.

Eve swallows the lump in her throat, and Villanelle hopes her question is enough to crush whatever nerve Eve grew to come over here. Eve says, “Yes.”

“He has an excellent mustache,” Villanelle comments, shrugging, and then she lifts the bow expertly, loads an arrow, and fires off a shot. 

Hits bullseye.

Eve doesn’t respond, but she watches. Villanelle feels the heaviness of Eve’s gaze on her back. She fires off another shot, hitting right next to the first one, and then says, “I have another question.”

“I wish you didn’t,” Eve breathes, and  _ ooh _ , feisty.

Smirking, Villanelle lowers the bow and steps forward. “Is he the only one?”

Eve widens her eyes. To her credit, she stands tall, doesn’t cower, and instead tilts her chin up at Villanelle. “No.”

Villanelle loads the bow with another arrow, aims without looking, and lets it release. Neither her or Eve look to see where it landed, staring at each other, but Villanelle knows she hit bullseye.

“What did you come over here for?” Villanelle asks, lowering the bow.

“I want,” Eve says, and Villanelle looks now, sees she was right, “you to train me.” And then Villanelle looks back at Eve, sees the hard, impenetrable gaze.

“You should have asked yesterday. Or the day before,” Villanelle says simply. “It is impossible to learn everything in a day.”

“Only impossible for a bad teacher.”

“ _ Ooh _ , Eve,” Villanelle tsks. “Do not talk to me like that.”

Yet Eve stares at her, stares  _ into _ her, and Villanelle fights the urge to take a step back, away from whatever this woman is doing to her. “Okay, fine,” Villanelle says, letting out her breath. “But I am  _ not _ sleeping with you.”

It does the trick. Puts Eve back into her place. Eve’s expression crumbles, and she almost looks offended. “That’s  _ not _ \--”

“Come, Eve,” Villanelle says, and she grabs Eve’s hand, pulling her. “Let’s go to the knives.”

 

.

 

Eve is twenty-seven, and they are having an argument.

Niko has never looked this sweaty, this angry, and his anger is directed at her, toward her, filling her up to the brim. So Eve cowers when he sticks a finger into her face, despite the flame of rage sparking inside of her with every step he takes in her direction. He’s angry and then he’s not, a frown wiping it away.

He brushes his hand through his mustache and sort-of beard, the way he gets when he hasn’t shaved in a while. “I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I shouldn’t have yelled.”

But Eve wants him to yell. She’s wrong, and he’s right, and she  _ deserves _ to be yelled at. To be hit. To be ruined. So Eve says nothing, only leans against the counter in the small kitchen.

“I just,” he sighs, looking toward the ceiling, “this is something I’ve wanted for a long time.”

Kids. He wants kids. He wants to have small children running around and calling them  _ father  _ and  _ mother _ , or rather  _ dad _ and  _ mom _ because Niko doesn’t have a proper bone in his body. Eve can see him with a baby in his arms and she wants to tell him to leave, to find someone else who will bear his children because she can’t. She won’t.

Eve will never.

“I know.” Eve digs her nails into the counter behind her. 

“So, where does that leave us?”

She wants to tell him the truth. That any thought of a child inside of her leads to thoughts of a child growing up, leads to thoughts of a child smiling at her before they go to school (leads to thoughts of a child crying before their first Reaping). She knows Niko will understand, if she tells him the truth, but she doesn’t want him to  _ understand _ , she wants him to surrender.

“I don’t know,” she admits, because it’s easier than the truth. To admit she’s scared, to let the man she loves hold her and comfort her when she knows she should be doing that for him.

And Niko drops it.

They have the same argument until Eve hits her mid-forties, practically too old to bear children, and it becomes less of an argument and more of a submission. When Niko starts spending more time out in the evenings with friends, Eve lets him because she knows it’s what he needs.

She needs the time alone anyway.

  
  
  



	6. wildcat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eve tells herself it’s jealousy blooming in her chest, something women feel about other women who are prettier and younger. Jealousy and nothing else. Eve lets herself look at Villanelle for a long moment, before she turns her gaze back to her hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> villanelle voice: okay, we can fight, but you will get tired and i will get bored, and you do not like it when i am bored.
> 
> so i had to throw in a bunch of people to fill in the blanks of the other tributes, because there are, in the hunger games, twenty-four of them every time. so a lot of them are villanelle's victims in the show. the important ones are... already in this story. i will clarify who lives and who dies if we EVER manage to get inside of the arena... 
> 
> tw for... violence  
> cw for... nsfw stuff

“Again,” Konstantin says, so Oksana repeats herself.

She’s nine, covered in sweat, and she lunges for the man before her with the aim to gouge his eyes out. He’s huge, fully grown, and she’s tiny, small for her age, but she manages to climb him like a tree, manages to make him  _ yell _ , and finally, manages to get her hands around his head and push her thumbs into his eyes. She presses as hard as she can, until there is a  _ tap, tap, tap _ on her forearm.

She slides off Konstantin, feet landing hard on the floor, and she beams. “Was that good?”

Despite himself, Konstantin smiles. He lets out a bark of a laugh, filling the entire room, and nods. He reaches forward and ruffles her hair, and Oksana  _ lives _ for the praise.

They run through a combination, him fending off her punches and kicks, her practicing her precision, and by then end of it, they are both gasping. Konstantin is not in great shape, but he keeps up with her.

“Very good,” he says, and Oksana glows.

Later, when they are taking a break to grab some water, Oksana wonders aloud what the Hunger Games are like.

“You know what they are like,” Konstantin says simply, and he sits beside her with a small cup in his hand. If Oksana leans to her left, they will brush legs. She does so, wants to feel a closeness she never gets to feel, and Konstantin doesn’t move for a minute before he shifts his leg. It is no longer touching hers.

“What is it  _ really _ like,” she asks again, staring at the floor. “What was it like for you?”

Konstantin shrugs, regarding her. She thinks he’s deciding if she’s ready to hear this. Konstantin says, “It was hard. I was very tired.”

“That’s because you are lazy,” she jokes. “What was hard about it?”

Another long pause. Oksana waits, then turns her head to look at Konstantin. Finally, he says, “Hurting people. Killing them.”

She wrinkles her nose. “That’s not hard.”

He looks at her, really looks at her, like he’s seeing her for the first time. She thinks back to when she had heard her father was dead, to when she found out his best friend and her godfather had killed him. She had crawled into her godfather’s bed and slipped a knife across his throat, because her father had told her that was where the blood was. She had liked it, the warmth that seeped out of him.

She smiles, remembering, and when she focuses again on Konstantin, his expression is worrying. “What?” she asks.

“Be careful,” he says quietly. “You’re odd, but you can love.” He pokes her in the chest, his finger hard on her sternum. “Do not lose that.”

She doesn’t know what he means, but she nods anyway. 

 

.

 

Eve pretends not to notice everyone watching them.

But they are. Elena, standing next to the plant identification station. Jess, sitting with Hugo near a small fitness area. Anton, at the camouflage station. Raymond, practicing starting fires. And Kenny, standing with the other Gamemakers high above them, looking almost frightened for Eve.

Villanelle looks through the knives available, then grabs one with a short hilt and a long, almost clumsy blade. She turns to Eve. “Hold it like this when you want it to be strong,” she explains, with the blade down. She mimics stabbing, bringing the blade toward the ground. “Then, like this when you want to be sneaky.”

She flips the blade so it sticks up, out of the top of her fist. “This way,” she says, “it’s tricky because the strike isn’t as steady.”

Eve nods, watching, but if she’s being honest with herself, none of this will stick. This entire thing was a desperate ruse to get Villanelle’s attention again. Instead of actually learning how to use a knife, Eve thinks about how to get on Villanelle’s bad side.

Grabbing Eve’s hands, Villanelle pushes the handle of the knife into them. As she does, she notices the scar on Eve’s palm and forgets the knife altogether. She holds Eve’s hand, looks at the scar, and smiles.

Eve snatches her hand back. “Don’t do that.”

“Dull knives can be very painful,” Villanelle says, holding the knife back out to her. “Did you know that we match?”

She raises her free hand and shows Eve a cut across the palm. Of course -- everything crashes into Eve. She remembers meeting Villanelle in that bathroom, remembers seeing her wash away the blood underneath the faucet.

“Take it,” Villanelle says, shaking the knife. “You aren’t going to learn if you don’t try.”

Eve suddenly feels sick, but she takes the knife. Holding it and Villanelle pointing out her scar is enough to drag her underneath the surface. She sees Dom’s face behind her eyes every time she blinks. She takes a deep breath, forcing herself to think about Villanelle, about hurting her, so the knife feels a little less heavy and a little more controllable.

“Do you want to know how I got mine?” Villanelle asks, as Eve gets used to the weight of the knife.

“Not really.”

“Rude,” Villanelle breathes, but there’s no bite behind it. Not like Eve expects. Villanelle looks around them, then down at the knife in Eve’s hands. “You could kill me right now,” she says, almost mesmerized. “If you had it in you.”

Eve wants to argue that she  _ does _ have it in her. Instead, she asks, “How did you get your cut?”

“Not as cool of a story as yours,” Villanelle says simply. “Someone made me very upset.” And that’s all she says, leaving Eve to think of three million ways the cut could’ve occurred. It drives her insane, really, and she stubbornly grips the knife even tighter.

“So,” she says, shifting the handle in her hands. “Like this?” She swings an arm, angling the knife downward, and Villanelle nods.

“Yeah. Like that.”

She takes another few experimental swings, and slowly, the people around her begin to lose interest. Villanelle notices this, too, and Eve watches her look around, then up at the Gamemakers. When she turns back to Eve, she grins.

“Okay.” She steps a bit closer to Eve, squaring her shoulders. “Now try to get me.”

“What?”

Villanelle reaches forward and turns Eve’s body so they are face to face. Her grip on Eve’s shoulders is light, suggesting, and less hard than Eve would’ve thought. “Go at me with the knife,” Villanelle clarifies.

“Are you insane?”

“No.” There’s a calm smile. “You should practice.”

Eve thinks about it for a long, long moment. Then, she pushes forward with the knife, aiming for Villanelle’s middle, and she feels a sharp almost- _ crack _ when Villanelle grabs her wrist and twists it, instantly forcing Eve’s hand open, the knife dropping to the ground.

The touch disappears, Villanelle takes two steps back, and she says, “Again.”

It feels inevitable. Eve knows if she walks away right now, Villanelle might lose interest all over again, and Eve isn’t sure if she can handle that. She remembers Villanelle fighting with Nadia the other day, remembers the way her heart leapt in her chest when Nadia actually managed to nail Villanelle in the face. The ghost of a bruise is still there, on Villanelle’s cheek, hidden underneath some makeup.

Eve picks up the knife. Holds it the second way Villanelle told her, and when Villanelle tilts her head in surprise, Eve stabs at her.

Once again, Villanelle dodges it easily, but knocks Eve hard in the stomach, pushing the air out of her chest violently. Eve falls to her knees.

Eve realizes Villanelle only accepted Eve’s request so she could do this. By continuing, she’s giving Villanelle want she wants. A chance to show off, a chance to let everyone know how fucking  _ weak _ Eve really is.

So Eve gets up. Goes for Villanelle again.

Each time she takes a strike, Villanelle hits her in a new place, a bit harder. Finally, Villanelle is a little out of breath, a little angry, and there is no longer a light in her eyes. Her playfulness is gone.

“Just give up,” she growls, twisting Eve’s arm behind her back. Eve holds the knife tight in her hand despite the pain in her shoulder. Villanelle’s breath is hot on her neck.

“No,” Eve spits. 

Villanelle shoves her to the ground and she lands flat. Hard. Painfully.

What she  _ doesn’t _ expect is Villanelle to turn her over, sit on her hips, and put both of her hands around Eve’s neck and  _ squeeze _ .

Eve can feel each of Villanelle’s fingers around her neck, one of them pressing just under her jaw, and another pressing against her windpipe. Her breath scrapes up her throat, clawing at her insides in an attempt to just  _ move _ , and Eve starts to feel lightheaded. Black at the edges of her vision. She’s suddenly dizzy, but the look in Villanelle’s eyes is wild, and maybe Eve is going to die today.

Eve taps the ground with her free hand, but Villanelle doesn’t see it. In doing so, though, Eve remembers her  _ other _ hand, the one still gripping the knife. Her grip getting weaker and weaker by the second.

Flipping the knife so the blade faces away from Villanelle, Eve “stabs” her, hitting her right between the ribs with the non-lethal end of the knife.

Villanelle pauses, looks at her, and  _ smiles _ . She sees Eve’s fake stab and looks impressed, almost, and then there are hands grabbing Villanelle by the armpits and pulling her away. Air fills Eve up as she gasps, unable to move, and she just stares at the ceiling.

 

.

 

Villanelle is almost thrown out of the elevator when it gets to her floor. She’s banned from the training floor until scoring, she’s told, and when she sees Konstantin waiting for her in the large dining room, sitting with his hands neatly folded before him, she knows he’s been informed.

“Are you insane?” he asks, and it’s the second time she’s been asked that today.

“No,” she pouts, going to sit beside him. “She pissed me off.”

Villanelle doesn’t tell him how fantastic it felt to have Eve underneath her, so close Villanelle could feel the life beating within her. Eve’s hips between her thighs, Eve’s eyes fluttering as she lost her breath. 

“You cannot just kill whoever pisses you off,” he growls, shaking his head. “Not yet, at least.”

“Why not?” Her voice gets higher, stronger, and she’s still mad. She’d enjoyed seeing the tightness of Eve’s face, her eyes bugging beneath her, enjoyed feeling Eve’s breath wither away inside of her chest. It felt almost as good as making her gasp in a  _ different  _ way. “You hired me because of my temper.”

“I didn’t hire you,” he reminds her. “ _ They _ hired you.”

“Whatever. They, you, it doesn’t matter. What  _ does _ matter is that I am sensational, so who cares if I hurt someone the day before the scoring?”

“If this gets out --”

Villanelle interrupts, “If this gets out, I will just get more sponsors.” Konstantin sighs and knows she’s right. “These people like when I am reckless and dangerous. They  _ like _ it.”

“I do not want you getting attached,” he admits, and she pauses, mostly because she thought she was hiding it well. She wonders if he thinks she’d been sneaking out at night to see Eve, and not Nadia.

“I’m not,” she replies, and leaves it at that.

Except, that night, Villanelle cannot sleep. She thinks about what she will do for the judges tomorrow. There’s no point in pretending she’s useless, mostly because they already know she is amazing. So. No point. Instead, she thinks about whether she will put on a show, or whether she will just do as she assumes they want.

In the middle of the night, Villanelle sneaks out again.

She doesn’t go to see Nadia.

She goes to the fifth floor, toward the left wing, and finds Eve’s room easily enough. She passes a snoring man’s bedroom, almost wants to peek in at him, but she thinks they’re watching her floor now, so they might notice she’s gone, if she’s gone for a while.

Slipping into Eve’s room is easy, and there, in the middle of the bed and sleeping face down, is Eve.

Her hair is a wild halo of dark around her head, and for a second, Villanelle thinks she’s just walked into Anna’s bedroom, like she used to so many years ago.

She stares at her for a long moment, then sucks in a breath. That ruins it. Eve smells nothing like Anna, mixed in with the sterile scent of the Capitol, and the room stinks of her. It’s so vastly different, it only serves to rile Villanelle up. A flash of anger courses through her (at the world, at the Capitol, for killing Anna), but it disappears just as quick when Eve sucks in a sharp breath in her sleep. 

“Please,” Eve breathes, almost whimpers, and Villanelle, despite already being still, freezes. She locks her entire body, waiting to see what Eve will do.

Another whimper. Villanelle can’t tell if it’s in pain or something else.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Eve mumbles, and it’s not in pain.

After several minutes of listening, Villanelle leans against the wall and sinks to the floor. She listens to Eve’s soft, skipping breaths, the occasional gasp, and slips a hand into her pants.

It’s not as furious as the other time, and she almost languidly finds herself already slick. She presses against her clit and bites her lip, and Eve says, “No!” almost a yell, and Villanelle bites back a groan. She justifies this to herself because she knows she won’t have time to do this once they’re in the Arena. 

She presses two fingers inside and comes fast, muffling her own sounds because she wants to hear Eve struggle for breath in whatever nightmare she’s having.

(Villanelle hopes, idly, that Eve dreams of her. No matter the context.)

 

.

 

The morning of the scoring, Eve wakes and is immediately bleary, too tired to move. She’d had a rough night, with nightmares and decidedly  _ not _ nightmares. She’s still dreaming about killing Villanelle, but also doing  _ other _ things with Villanelle. Things Villanelle must have done with Nadia. It gives her whiplash. She stares at the ceiling and sucks in a breath, then lets it out. Slow.

She talks to Bill about what she’ll do, suggesting a few ideas to him. He takes her by the shoulders and says, “Just don’t get a zero.”

The scoring takes place two days before the Games. Each tribute is expected to perform before the Gamemakers and receive a score, and the score will be broadcasted to the entirety of the country. For the people’s amusement, of course, but more specifically for the rich people of Panem. Scoring allows them to make bets early, as well as prepare their gifts. Most often, the people who score the highest are the ones who win.

Eve stands in the elevator and has no fucking idea what she’s going to do. The thought of Kenny watching her, judging her, makes her want to throw up. She wishes she could talk to him, figure out how everything turned out this way. 

She misses their early morning phone calls. 

She ends up in a room with all of the other tributes, everyone is arranged in a seating system that reminds her so much of her early school years. Everyone has a friend, someone to sit next to, and Eve is no exception. She settles in a cluster with Elena and Hugo, Jess arriving a few minutes later. They don’t talk about what they plan to do, and right as the first person’s name is called, Raymond from District 1, Villanelle waltzes into the room, fashionably late.

And she  _ is _ fashionable, Eve notices, looking impeccable in a casual outfit.

She tells herself it’s jealousy blooming in her chest, something women feel about other women who are prettier and younger. Jealousy and nothing else. Eve lets herself look at Villanelle for a long moment, before she turns her gaze back to her hands.

Ten minutes after Raymond goes into the room, he exits, and the guard calls out  _ Villanelle _ .

 

.

 

Villanelle walks into the scoring room, surveys the judges, and sits on the ground. For ten minutes, she sits with her legs crossed, her hands in her lap, her eyes closed.

She thinks about growing up, while sitting there, and of her parents before they died. Her mother used to smile at her and brush her hair out of her face. Her father had a harsher hand, but there was still admiration in his gaze when he looked at her. She didn’t blame him for the times he hit her, but she blamed him when he hit her mother.

When the guard tells her her time is up, Villanelle unfurls herself, standing tall, and walks out of the room.

 

.

 

Eve tries to use some of the skills Villanelle taught her.

She faces off with a sparring partner, one of the guards, but she knows he’s taking it easy on her. The knife is clumsy in her hand, inexperienced, yet she tries her best and even manages to slice one of the protective pieces of plastic on the guard’s body. He smiles at her, egging her on, and she begins to feel a sort of relief take over her body.

She goes for him again, but the movement reminds her too much of a young, skinny boy standing in front of her. She blinks, gets hit hard, and then lunges for the guard, imagining he is Villanelle.

Despite all odds, Eve brings the man down. Fighting him feels like pure survival instinct, and she imagines Villanelle grinning at her with bloody teeth.

As she stands, she looks up to see Kenny watching her. He nods, just once, as the other gamemakers take their notes. 

 

.

 

“Ladies and Gentleman, I am Caesar Flickerman, and today is the day we find out which of our victors still have it and which don’t. Broadcasting live from the Capitol, I have the results of the scoring that took place earlier today. Remember, the highest score is 12, while the lowest is 1. Hopefully,” he laughs, voice reverberating, “none of our cherished victors got a 1.

Let’s see how our tributes did, shall we?”

He reads the names in order of district, the girl first.

Oksana “Villanelle” Astankova, 11.   
Raymond Shaw, 10.

Nadia Kadomtseya, 9.   
Anton Ochoa, 9.

Jin Park, 9.   
Hugo Armstrong, 6.

Amber Peel, 3.   
Diego Bisset, 10.

Eve Polastri, 7.   
Luke Jennings, 5.

Jess Daugherty, 4.   
Frank Haleton, 2.

Carla de Mann, 6.   
Gabriel Travers, 3.

Zhang Wu, 5.   
Sonia Tattevin, 1.

Pamela Owens, 4.   
Sebastien Dupuis, 7.

Martin Akhtar, 6.   
Agniya Leverett, 8.

Elena Felton, 7.   
Vladimir Betkin, 9.

 

.

 

Eve barely has enough time to react to the scores before the guards show up and take her to get ready for the interviews. She’s carted into a small room, her stylists flocking around her, discussing  _ how _ , precisely, they want to dress her. They pull at her hair, and Eve has to, more than once, tell them to “stop, please, that hurts” as they attempt to reign in her curls. Unlike the other day, her curls aren’t having it, and instead of straightening them, the stylists let them be.

When she finally looks in the mirror, Eve doesn’t recognize her own face, but at the very least, she recognizes her hair. She reaches up and wants to bring a hand through it, but one of her stylists grabs her wrist, stopping her, and says, “Not yet. Don’t mess it up.”

She is getting ready for the interviews, the last portion of the pre-Games fanfare, and after, of course, there will be a ball. 

Then, she walks out of the room and runs into Bill in the hallway. “So,” Eve says, “what’s the game plan?”

“The plan is to be yourself,” he tells her, and they walk.

“Myself?”

“Well,” he continues. “The people love you.”

“They really don’t.”

“I  _ mean _ , they love all of the victors. Of course, they have their favorites, but that means you are bound to be someone’s favorite as well.”

“What about after?” Eve and Bill reach the elevators, where they press the button and wait for it to arrive.

Bill looks at Eve. Eve doesn’t want to really think about the interviews, because she knows what she’s going to do then. What she  _ doesn’t _ know is how to approach Kenny, after all this time, and talk to him like he hasn’t been the one she’s called after nightmares. She aches to tell him about the twist Villanelle is pulling in her dreams as of late, but she knows when she sees him, she won’t be able to bring herself to actually confront him.

Besides, Elena will be there, too. And Eve’s sure Elena will have a mouthful for him.

“The ball is new,” Bill says, and the elevator arrives, finally. “They haven’t done that before. Of course, there will be cameras, but it’s mostly an opportunity for the richest people in the Capitol to actually talk to you. All of you. That’s about all I know.”

They step into the elevator, and Eve’s stomach flips as it begins to go down.

 

.

 

Villanelle is first.

She’s wearing a bright pink dress that flows out from her body, along with heels that make her legs look much longer than they are. Her hair, pin straight, shimmers like actual gold, and she has blush across her cheeks, gold accents on her eyelids, and bright red lips. She knows she looks incredible, and as she walks out onto the stage for her pre-Games interview, the crowd tells her she looks beautiful by way of shouts and screams and applause, applause, applause.

Caesar Flickerman looks absolutely ridiculous, Villanelle thinks, adorned with too-tight clothing and too much makeup. 

When she reaches him, he gives her air kisses on each cheek, and she flashes a bright smile to him, the audience, and the cameras. “Hell-o!” he yells, and the crowd goes wild again.

“Oksana Astankova, in the flesh,” he breathes. She wonders how he manages to keep his smile as bright as it is for as long as he does.

“Actually,” she corrects, not unkindly, “I’m going by Villanelle, now.”

“Villa _ nelle _ ,” he echoes, appropriately scandalized. “What does that come from?”

“It’s French.” She leans in conspiratorially. “It’s actually from one of my favorite perfumes.”

Caesar beams at her, then claps his hands on his thighs. “Ladies and gentlemen, here’s our favorite tribute, Villanelle!” The crowd loses it. “All right, all right. Now, Villanelle, tell me how you’ve been faring since your Games ended. Is there possibly any love on the horizon?”

Just barely, Villanelle stiffens. She hides it well, straightening in her chair, and she breezes a smile. “Not quite.”

“No way! There has to be  _ someone _ .”

Pressing her lips together, Villanelle considers this. Then, she leans in. “Actually, there might be.”

“When you lost Anna, I’m sure an entire  _ nation _ was devastated.” The crowd murmurs in agreement, but all eyes are on Villanelle, who doesn’t move an inch at the mention of Anna. Caesar continues, “We didn’t get to catch you for comment, after her Games. Could you tell us a bit more about Anna?”

Clearing her throat, Villanelle’s smile is a bit more forced. “Losing Anna was… terrible.” She paints an expression of terrible loss across her features, not entirely sure how much of it is real or how much of it is for show, and says, “I miss her everyday.”

“Aw!” Caesar waves at the crowd, who echoes his sentiment. “But wait,” he says, chipper once again. “You said there was someone else?”

Annoyed, Villanelle nods. “There might be.”

“Someone lucky waiting back home?”

“Yes,” Villanelle says, and then, she looks directly into the camera. “Back home.”

 

.

 

Backstage, Eve stares at Villanelle’s face, feeling like Villanelle is looking directly into her own eyes. She shakes her head, anxious to get this over with, and hopes to god Villanelle isn’t talking about her. Except, maybe that would be a  _ good _ thing. It would mean Eve had captured Villanelle’s attention again, and that Villanelle is focused on her.

Or she could be talking about Nadia.

Eve doesn’t know why, but there’s something about Nadia that just pulls at her the exact wrong way. It had started when she saw Villanelle spending more time with the younger girl, and then when she’d watched Nadia approach Villanelle on the training floor, before they both disappeared. Eve knew enough about brief hookups to know exactly what Nadia’s flushed face and unkempt hair meant when they reappeared.

Bill claps a hand on Eve’s shoulder. “You look incredible, by the way.”

Nodding, Eve says, “Who do you think she’s talking about?” Villanelle’s interview ends, and before Bill can say a word, Villanelle walks off stage and gives an icy smile to Raymond, who replaces her.

Bill pointedly stays quiet as Villanelle passes them, giving Eve a onceover. “Wow, Eve,” she practically whistles. “You look  _ stunning _ .”

Ignoring the artificial lilt in Villanelle’s voice, Eve goes red, and instantly wants to say, “You as well,” because Villanelle also looks incredible (and Eve probably dims in comparison), but instead she says, “Thanks.” It’s tight.

Villanelle raises a brow, then walks off, and Eve is jealous she gets to leave while Eve has to wait.

“What  _ was _ that?” Bill asks, turning around to watch Villanelle go. He turns back to Eve, looking at her accusingly. “Eve.”

Clenching her jaw, Eve minutely shakes her head. “I don’t know.” On Bill’s face, she amends, “I  _ really _ don’t.”

“Jesus,” Bill breathes. They stand there while Raymond talks about his children back home in one, and Eve wonders if they are as ugly as he is.

Something occurs to her, as Raymond talks about his wife. “Who is Anna?” The woman Caesar asked Villanelle about.

“Hm?” Bill had been actually listening to Raymond’s interview. “Oh. Anna… She could be the woman from… Had to be a few years ago now. Right. Anna Leonova. She was a tribute from one the year they did the no age limit thing.”

Eve definitely hadn’t watched those Games. “Did you go?”

“I did.”

“Was Villanelle there?”

“Wait,  _ yeah _ . She was actually Anna’s mentor. I remember thinking it odd, because I hadn’t seen Villanelle in the Capitol since she won.” 

Eve grows distracted, then, and the two of them hardly notice when Raymond switches with Nadia, whose youth is accentuated by her clothes. For just a few minutes, Eve listens, but she drifts off again, thinking instead of the way Nadia’s cheeks had been flushed the morning before, and Villanelle had been smiling, proud.

Nadia fidgets on screen, and Eve wonders if she fidgeted, or exactly how her hips moved, with Villanelle’s hand between her legs.

Eve closes her eyes. She hopes it will clear her mind, but the images get brighter, the thoughts louder, and she imagines Villanelle’s lips on  _ her _ neck, pressing against  _ her _ . Not Nadia. Not Nadia.

Bill shakes her out of it, and Nadia is long gone. It is Eve’s turn, and both Bill and the stage manager push her toward the stage.

 

.

 

Villanelle is back in her room by the time Eve’s interview starts. She sits on the edge of the bed, very still, and watches the camera give the country Eve Polastri’s best angles, in full appreciation of her hair (Villanelle hadn’t seen Eve’s hair look that good since they met in the bathroom), her dress (Villanelle hadn’t been able to  _ not _ look at the tight fabric hugging Eve’s hips), and her smile (forced, Villanelle can tell, and hesitant).

Hands winding into the sheets, Villanelle breathes evenly as Caesar introduces Eve to the world. “Now tell me,” he continues, “about your husband.” A picture appears in the background, and an almost flattering photo of  _ Niko Polastri _ .

“Niko,” Eve says, and her voice is tinged with… what? Love, hesitation, worry -- Villanelle can’t tell. “He’s…” She doesn’t know what to say. “Nice. Wonderful. I talked about him during my first Games.”

“You did,” Caesar confirms. “But how is he  _ now _ ?”

Villanelle can tell Eve, quite honestly, has no idea what to say. She lives for it, not noticing that she leans forward, just a bit. On the edge of the bed. Waiting. 

“He’s a teacher,” Eve says. “A fantastic teacher, educating the people of five. He’s so selfless. I’ve never felt more in love with him. Every day is just… Just a gift.”

The crowd “Aw”s at that appropriately, and Caesar truly looks like he’s tearing up. Villanelle watches with almost a wonder, then turns her gaze back to Eve. Eve, who shifts uncomfortably, and looks so  _ guilty _ . Villanelle smiles. “You liar,” she breathes at Eve’s face.

She can’t stop thinking about that moment, right after stepping off stage, when she saw Eve. Eve, with her amazing hair falling across her shoulders. Eve, finally wearing something that  _ suited _ her, rather than the stupid uniforms for training. Eve, Eve, Eve. She can’t stop thinking about that, but she also can’t stop thinking about Eve’s dark gaze after Villanelle told her she looked stunning.

Because in that tiny, wonderful moment, Eve’s eyes flicked down across Villanelle’s body, to her legs and then her hips and her chest and then finally back to her eyes.

Eve had  _ looked _ , and now Villanelle looks at Eve, uncomfortably giving her husband the most cliche barrage of compliments.

Villanelle has never wanted to know what Eve’s insides looked like more. Her intestines, slippery with blood, as Villanelle sifts through them, searching for Eve’s heart. Her intestines but also her mouth, thick with Eve’s tongue against Villanelle’s, and then her center, wet and slick with heat, and Villanelle wants to feel  _ those _ insides as well, climb her way into Eve’s everything and pull, in turn, everything out.

Pressing her thighs together, Villanelle bites her lip and walks promptly out of the room.

 

.

 

Oksana blinks around her. The walls are sterile, brilliant white, and they reflect the light so strong that it hits Oksana’s eyes and the small girl squeezes her eyes back shut. Behind them, all she sees is blood. Blood, deep and red, behind her eyelids. She can feel it, too, on her palms and her fingers.

Oksana is twelve, and she has just won the Hunger Games.

A voice says, “Oksana,” catching her attention, and then her eyes are forced open by a fore finger and a thumb. There is a light shining directly into it, and Oksana’s first instinct is to use her nails, to grab and claw at the figure bearing down on her. “Jesus!” the figure yelps, and Oksana is a knot of violence and speed and, suddenly… sluggishness?

Just as she manages to sink her teeth into the shoulder of the figure, she feels her blood slow almost to a stop, her limbs disobeying her control, and she hears someone say, “I just delivered the paralytic.”

“She won’t pass out?” A thick, accented voice. Sounds like home.

“No.”

Hands lay Oksana back onto a small cot. She blinks at the ceiling. Everything is no longer too bright, but there is a shadow falling across her.

She blinks. The shadow is now Konstantin.

“Oksana,” he says, and he gives her a hesitant smile. Oksana thinks, briefly, it could be the most real smile he’s ever given to her. “You did it.”

Oh.

She is here because she. Did it. She won.

“Really?” she asks, because her heart is  _ thump, thump, thump _ -ing in her chest, but that could be an illusion. Heaven is supposed to be white, she’s been told. This room, this very, very white room, could be Heaven.

“Yes,” he tells her, and she doesn’t feel the pressure of his hand on her arm, but she sees it, watching him put his hand just above her elbow. It’s a gesture, and she wishes desperately to know how it feels. “You did so well,” Konstantin tells her, and Oksana  _ glows _ .

She hears relief in his voice. She did well.

She’d wanted to, for him, but also for her father, too. 

A small tear slips out of the corner of Oksana’s right eye, and she cannot wipe it away. She cannot move, only cry, and she puts on the barest hint of a smile. She cannot move, but she has won the Hunger Games. She cannot move, but she imagines her father standing next to the bed and telling her he knows, he  _ saw _ .

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> madame tattevin got a one because she's old :( 
> 
> ilu luke jennings
> 
> "it's french" villanelle explains, but idk if france even existed in the hunger games universe but we're pretending it does:)
> 
> WE ARE IGNORING THE FACT THAT I ONLY HAVE ELEVEN DISTRICTS OKAY... the 12th district tributes are emerald fennell (who will be slaughtered) and the priest from fleabag


	7. one way or another

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eve hurts for Elena, she hurts for Kenny, but most of all, she hurts because this entire world, it seems, it out to get everyone in it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one way, or another, i'm gonna find ya... i'm gonna getcha getcha getcha
> 
> tw for... mentions of rape/non-consensual stuff (no details - just vague mention)  
> cw for... elena/kenny content, hugo attempting to be flirty, konstantin's boner

When Eve is thirty-two, one of Niko’s students is Reaped. 

He stands next to her during the Reaping, while Eve stares at the ground and desperately wishes she is somewhere else, and he grips her hand tightly when a girl’s name is called. She’s fourteen, and Eve recognizes her. She knows the girl has come to the house for dinner at least once, as Niko likes inviting small groups of students sometimes. When she wanders through the crowd and up to the stage, it’s Niko’s turn to stare at the ground.

Eve squeezes Niko’s hand while praying the girl doesn’t choose Eve as her mentor.

She doesn’t, but that night, Niko begs her to go to the Capitol anyway, to watch over the girl, at least from a distance, and while she wants to argue it’s already too late, the train has already left, she knows if she asks Bill to come with her, they will find a way to go.

That’s how Eve finds herself going back to the Capitol for the third time after winning the Hunger Games, and on the train ride there, she braces herself with the images of children dying. Children killing each other. A child she knows killing other children and most likely dying.

“I’m glad you’re actually coming this year,” Bill murmurs when they reach the train station in the Capitol. “The others are… Well, they’re  _ nice _ , but they’re not you. Cynical as you are.”

She bumps her shoulder against his, smiling, but says nothing.

A few days later, after the Games have begun, Eve finds herself in a large room filled with Capitol sponsors, or rich people with nothing better to do, and other victors. It’s almost a party, with giant screens showing what is currently happening in the Games.

Eve’s glad, for the sake of this public appearance, that no one is currently killing anyone else.

“Hello!” a voice says, wandering up to both Bill and Eve. 

Eve turns to find a beautiful woman walking up to them, holding a glass of wine and sporting a smart coat and skirt. She comes to Bill’s side with some familiarity, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Bill,” the woman greets, before eyeing Eve. “Who’s your friend?”

“Elena,” Bill says right back. “This is Eve.”

Recognition lights up in Elena’s eyes, and she lunges forward, wrapping Eve in a tight hug. “Oh, Eve!” she says into Eve’s shoulder, and Eve reluctantly raises her arms, hugging Elena back. “It’s so good to finally meet you.”

Over Elena’s shoulder, Eve mouths to Bill,  _ Who is this? _

“This is Elena,” Bill explains, at normal volume. “She won… How many years ago?”

“Ugh,” Elena sighs, pulling back. “Feels like a century. I’m old.”

“ _ You’re _ old,” Bill pouts. “What am I?”

Elena reaches forward and pats his cheek with her hand. “Elderly.”

Despite everything, Eve smiles. They are in the Capitol, and Eve has been and will continue to be forced to watch children kill each other, but Elena is kind and nice and Eve doesn’t let herself think about who Elena might have killed to get here. She doesn’t  _ want _ to think about it, because Elena acts like they’ve known each other for years and it makes Eve want to be her friend. 

“Bill never shuts up about you,” Elena says, smiling. “I feel as though I’ve known you forever.” Eve thinks, idly, maybe Elena can read minds.

“He hasn’t mentioned you once,” Eve counters. “Yet I feel the same.”

Making a face, Elena shoves Bill’s shoulder. “You sod!”

“Ow, ow!”

 

.

 

The Ball is at the President’s mansion, and Eve is shouldered into another dress, this time a deep blue, and is grateful it covers more of her skin this time. It’s cool out, and most of the party is outside, but Bill is warm beside her, his arm looped around her elbow, and together, they walk into the crowd.

The mansion is huge, with pillars and fountains and extravagance Eve hasn’t seen anywhere except the Capitol. She wonders if this type of expense can be found in the richer districts, too, but decides asking Villanelle probably isn’t the best idea. Instead, she wanders and looks around, grabbing small bites of food as she goes.

As a waiter passes, Eve picks up a small, shot-sized glass of silver liquid, gazing at it quizzically.

Bill leans in and explains, “You’re supposed to drink it, and it’ll make you throw up.”

“Throw  _ up _ ?”

“So you can eat more,” he continues. On Eve’s horrified expression, he says, “I know.”

“That’s terrible.” Eve places her small glass down on the nearest table.

“That’s the Capitol.” Bill tips a glass of alcohol at her, downing it.

“Where can I get one of those?” Eve wonders, before she approaches one of the caterers and steals a glass. It’s her first of many, but the taste of it instantly soothes her nerves.

“Eve!” A voice calls out, loud over the crowd, and Eve turns to find Elena. She wishes she had the energy to watch Elena’s interview, realizing she hadn’t when Elena crosses the area to embrace her. “Long day, huh?”

“The longest,” Eve agrees. “How was your, um, interview? I didn’t get to watch it.”

“No sweat. I didn’t watch yours, either. Too busy worrying about everything else.” Elena looks around, slightly distracted. “They didn’t ask about Kenny, thank God. I don’t think the general public knows about us, otherwise they’d be all over it.”

Eve notices Elena isn’t joking, as per usual, and decides it must be because it’s the night before the Games. “That’s good,” Eve says, and she wonders if it is, really. Making things complicated for Kenny might benefit them. “Have you seen him?”

“No,” Elena sighs. “He’s supposed to be here, right?”

“Maybe he’s avoiding us.”

With a deadpan look, Elena says, “I’ll kill him myself if I don’t see him before tomorrow.”

Eve sips her drink, not doubting her words, and then the both of them instantly see Kenny through the crowd, looking uncomfortable in a well-tailored suit. Kenny is one of the only people from the Capitol Eve has met who doesn’t dress ridiculously, but tonight, she hates him for it. She wishes he wasn’t one of  _ them _ , therefore pitting them on opposite sides. Even from the beginning.

“Fucker,” Elena breathes, and Eve doesn’t have time to hold her back before Elena is moving through the crowd.

“Oh, dear,” Bill comments, and Eve had forgotten he was there.

“I know. I’m gonna… Help.”

“Good luck.”

Eve leaves Bill and weaves through the crowd, a few steps behind Elena, and as she reaches both her and Kenny, she sees the absolutely guilty look passing over Kenny’s face.

She realizes, then, that Kenny is still just a young man. He can’t even look either of them in the face, his eyes on the ground, and he shoves his hands deep into his pockets. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly, and Elena looks angrier still.

“An apology? That’s all I get?”

“It’s all I  _ have _ ,” he complains. “I can’t give you anything else.”

“You can,” Eve cuts in, and both Kenny and Elena look at her. She hurts for her friend, she hurts for Kenny, but most of all, she hurts because this entire world, it seems, it out to get everyone in it. “You can,” she repeats. “Give us… A hint.”

The horror flashing across Kenny’s face is delicious, Eve realizes. There’s a thundering in her chest, and her heart just  _ pounds _ thinking about this slight manipulation. Elena’s does, too, she can tell, because the ghost of a smile pricks at her lips. 

“I-I can’t.” Kenny stands a bit taller. “I really,  _ really _ can’t.”

“I’m going to die,” Elena says bluntly. “The least you could do is let me cheat a bit.”

In the middle of a crowd where no one is paying attention to them, the three stand in a triangle, with Kenny’s anxiety bouncing between them. He glances around, looking for someone (probably Carolyn, Eve guesses), and then says, “There are four parts.”

That means nothing. Eve says, “...Okay.”

“It doesn’t look like it, though,” he explains, words fast and quiet. “In the start, it looks like a forest, but it’s not. Everything is a trick of the eye. Don’t believe what you see.”

Elena and Eve stand there, almost stunned into silence. 

“That’s all I can tell you,” he says, almost desperately. “Please don’t make me tell you more.”

Elena instinctively reaches out and puts a hand on Kenny’s cheek. It’s an intimate moment, one Eve has to fight not to look away from, because Kenny sinks into the touch immediately. Eve says, “People will see,” and Elena’s hand falls back to her side. Kenny’s brief moment of relief disappears. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, and he looks at Elena like he wants to do  _ everything _ , and then he looks at Eve and gives her a crisp nod. 

Then, he turns around and goes into the crowd, disappearing. 

“I feel like I’m going to die tomorrow,” Elena breathes, downing the rest of her drink. “And I didn’t feel like that the first time.”

“To dying?” Eve suggests, and tilts her glass to Elena.

“Hold on, I need another one.”

When Elena manages to snag another glass from a server, they  _ clink _ together and drink. Eve looks over the rim of her glass to the edge of the courtyard, where Villanelle has just entered with a large, burly man. Villanelle’s gaze flicks across the crowd, then ultimately lands on Eve. Eve’s heart sinks deeper into her chest, and perhaps it’s not just the alcohol buzzing within her, but something else entirely.

 

.

 

The last thing Villanelle likes is public appearances. She prefers being invisible, slinking through the district streets without being seen or recognized. In the districts, unless she’s in the first four, they tend not to know her. In the latter districts, the Hunger Games is something to be ignored during the times in the year when it is not plastered on every screen. She can be herself and not worry about autographs or press.

Here, at this Ball, everyone knows exactly who she is. What she has done.

Even Eve, who eyes her from across the room, and that gaze sets a thunder inside of Villanelle’s chest. She makes a mental note to shut whatever  _ that _ is into a small, little box inside of herself. She doesn’t think about how Eve looks like Anna, in this moment, in that dress.

Well, she doesn’t have  _ time _ to think about how Eve looks like and reminds her of Anna, because Konstantin materializes at her side, putting a rough hand on the inside of her elbow, and says, “There’s someone I want you to meet.” Reflexively, Villanelle slips out of his grip. He notices and nods. “Sorry.”

They walk through the crowd (Villanelle pointedly avoids looking at Eve) and find themselves in the presence of an extremely handsome woman, with short cropped hair, a nice dress, and an even, distant smile.

“This is Carolyn,” Konstantin says. “Carolyn Martens.” Instantly, Villanelle recognizes the name; Carolyn is one of the most prolific Gamemakers of all time, only just retiring this year.

“Of course,” Villanelle says. “I remember you, from when you were watching my training from the little viewing box in the compound.”

“You did excellently in those Games,” Carolyn comments, raising a brow. 

Instead of a  _ thank you _ , Villanelle says, “I know.”

Konstantin stands between them, a hesitant smile on his face, and then he laughs, a bit awkward. It’s his nervous laugh, Villanelle knows, and she wonders why he is nervous before the  _ former _ Head Gamemaker. She is, at least, glad Carolyn is not the one in charge of these Games, because Villanelle would, most likely, not make it out alive if that were the case.

“I wanted to formally meet you,” Carolyn explains, looking Villanelle up and down. “And tell you how impressed I’ve been with your… performance.”

Villanelle narrows her eyes. She looks at Konstantin, who is waiting for her to get it. Performance? In her first Hunger Games? “It’s been years,” she says, shrugging. “I’ve forgotten most of it.”

“Not all of it, I hope,” Carolyn says, putting a hand on Villanelle’s shoulder. The touch feels wrong, and Villanelle wants to shrug out of it, get far, far away from here, but she stands there, tall, and bears it.

“Good seeing you, Konstantin,” Carolyn continues, and then she walks off and away.

“You should see the look on your face,” Konstantin points out, once Carolyn is far enough away.

“You should see the look on your  _ pants _ ,” Villanelle snaps, watching Carolyn’s back as she moves through the crowd. Konstantin’s head whips down, and he checks for anything, but there’s nothing. Instead of commenting, Villanelle says, “I missed something.”

“You did.” Konstantin leans in. “She is  _ them _ .”

Villanelle knows instantly what he means, then. Everything makes sense, except for the fact that Carolyn is now an unknown variable. Sure, she’s the person who has been giving Konstantin the orders, and Konstantin, in turn, has given Villanelle names of people she has to kill, and Villanelle, ever the perfect soldier, has done it. She has never asked why. She has only been glad to get out of the Capitol’s grasp and do something  _ meaningful _ . 

“They are very upset,” Konstantin continues, “that you have been dragged into this again.” Villanelle turns to him, assessing the odd look on his face. “They do not want to lose a valuable asset.”

_ Valuable _ .

“They like me?” she hums, turning away from him to follow a cater waiter with a plate full of small things to munch on. She doesn’t know what they are, but she takes five anyway. The waiter gives her a look. “What?”

The waiter moves off, and Konstantin follows her. “Yes. They like you a lot.”

Stuffing the small food into her mouth, Villanelle nods. “Does that mean they will help me in the arena? Like, send me things?”

She doesn’t know why Konstantin looks at her like  _ that _ , like she’s missing half of the goddamn puzzle. Pressing his lips together, he reaches over to steal one of the foods she grabbed. She waves it away from him, out of reach, and he scowls. Finally, he says, “Yes, they will help you. Most likely not in the way you expect.”

“Whatever that means,” she grumbles, because it makes her uncomfortable when Konstantin is real with her.

 

.

 

Of all the places Eve ever expected to be, standing at the edge of a courtyard at a party for the  _ President _ while drinking with Hugo is the last of them.

Attempting to be sly, Hugo turns around and knocks back another glass of expensive champagne, and Eve, despite everything, finds herself a bit drunk and  _ giggling _ at his antics. He shakes his head at her, then smiles. They are both adequately buzzed, as Eve has decided the worst way she could wake up tomorrow morning is hungover.

“God,” Hugo groans, putting a hand on his stomach. “I’m stuffed.” He burps, and Eve widens her eyes.

“You’re disgusting,” she tells him, but she smiles.

Getting drunk like this around Niko was never an option. He didn’t like it when she drank, because she inevitably talked about the Hunger Games and how much she hated it, and he didn’t like her when she was like  _ that _ . He used to call her too dark, too brooding, but he stopped doing that after the one time telling her that made her cry.

“So, you’re married,” Hugo says, and it’s not a question.

Eve opens her mouth to answer, but lets her eyes drift through the crowd. She spots Elena and Kenny having a conversation at the other end of the courtyard. Elena looks like she’s crying.

“Yeah,” she confirms, a bit distracted. Worried about her friends.

“They’re fine,” Hugo points out, noticing where she’s looking. “Sad, but fine. Probably knock naughty bits a bunch before tomorrow.”

Eve doesn’t want to think about that. She wrinkles her nose. “What about you?” She turns to him, reaching out to grab another glass from a caterer as they pass. “Any women waiting for you back home?”

“No women,” he sighs. “Men, either.”

Eve raises a brow. “Oh? You’re…”

“Yeah,” he laughs, tipping his practically empty glass at her. “And what about you, Eve Polastri.” He looks her up and down, and she decides she doesn’t like the way he says her name.  _ Niko’s _ name, tacked onto her own.

“What about me?”

“Ever liked women?” He raises his eyebrows suggestively.

Sober Eve would immediately shake her head, scoff, and deny it entirely. Sober Eve would talk instead about Niko, who she is committed to entirely.

Tonight, she is not Sober Eve.

Slightly drunk (okay, more than  _ slightly _ ) Eve looks and instinctively finds Villanelle in the crowd, standing next to the man who Eve has come to know is her mentor. Konstantin something, with a bellowing laugh. 

Hugo immediately notices. “Eve,” he accuses, leaning into her space.

“Shut up,” she says. 

“No, I mean. She’s --”

“If you say sexy, I’m killing you first.”

“I was going to say  _ beautiful _ ,” Hugo snaps, grinning. “But you can kill me all you like,  _ Miss. _ ”

He stands too close to her, alcohol on his breath, and she thinks about fucking him. She has had sex with people other than Niko, but that had been because they asked her of it. The difference was consent. The difference was Niko  _ knew _ and didn’t care. Or maybe he did and never told her. 

Eve genuinely takes pause, knowing full well she could grab Hugo’s hand and pull him into some corner and let him do whatever he wanted (or more accurately, do with him whatever  _ she _ wanted), because when she stepped onto the train and left District 5, she knew she wasn’t going home. She knew she would never see Niko again and that something like this  _ doesn’t matter _ .

Blinking, Eve realizes Hugo isn’t the one she wants.

“I’m too drunk,” she says softly, breaking the mood.

He nods. “You know,” he offers, “she’s been watching you all night.”

Eve doesn’t need to ask who he is talking about. She looks up and finds Villanelle watching them at right this moment, and Villanelle doesn’t look away when they find each other’s gazes.

Villanelle looks at her, expression blank, and Eve thinks she would rather be dead than let Villanelle have her.

Not a moment too soon, Villanelle turns and vanishes in the crowd. Hugo lets out a breath. “If she were looking at me like  _ that _ …” He doesn’t finish his sentence.

“I’m gonna,” Eve says. She doesn’t finish her sentence either.

In her drunk, hazy mind, she makes the decision to go after her. She ignores Elena’s, “Eve, where are you off to?” and pushes through the crowd, smiling and nodding when appropriate, but keeping her eyes glued to the honey-blonde head weaving through people. She trips, more than once, but keeps her eyes on the prize.

Tonight is the last chance she has to make Villanelle hate her.

Villanelle goes into a bathroom and Eve follows her. She pushes through the door and finds Villanelle standing at the sink, gazing at her own reflection. She glances at Eve, who had exactly enough nerve to get her in here, but not enough to go any further. “Are you enjoying the party?”

Eve wishes everything was over. She wishes Villanelle could slam her against a wall and crack her skull open and Eve would bleed,  _ so much blood _ , and it would all end right here, right now. But Villanelle smiles at her, and Eve finds herself wishing for more than a cracked skull and the end.

“No,” Eve breathes, finally, her voice almost cracking. It doesn’t.

Villanelle leans into the mirror and brings a finger up to her lips, wiping away smeared lipstick. “You look very good,” Villanelle comments. “You have a nice body.”

Eve steps into the room, because when Villanelle plays this game it’s infuriating. “I’m sure that’s what you said to Nadia,” she snaps, and it comes out of left field for both of them. Eve, because she hadn’t even realized Nadia made her this angry, and Villanelle, who hadn’t realized Eve cared this much.

“Eve,” Villanelle chastises. She turns now, leaning one hip against the counter. “Don’t be jealous.”

“I’m not.”

“Sounds like you are.”

“I’m  _ not _ .”

Pressing her lips together, Villanelle shrugs. It infuriates Eve, Villanelle flippantly brushing her off like this. She gets it, Villanelle’s some hotshot killer who is beloved across the entirety of the country, and Eve’s just  _ Eve _ . She gets it. She wants to wipe the insolent expression right off Villanelle’s face, but all she comes up with is a soft growl of, “Why are you a child?”

Villanelle’s expression darkens. “I haven’t been a child for a long time.”

They both know that’s true. Eve wonders, not for the first time, what Villanelle was like before the Hunger Games, before all of this and the Capitol drowned her out. She wonders if Villanelle was the same. 

Eve wonders then what will make Villanelle angry. She remembers the tightness in Villanelle’s jaw when Caesar asked about  _ Anna _ , remembers the barely contained anger. “Who is Anna?” Eve asks, and she knows she’s made the right decision when irritation flashes across Villanelle’s face.

“No one.”

“They asked about her in your interview,” Eve states.

“You are a great listener,” Villanelle snaps, not looking at her. She clenches her fist at her side, and Eve decides it’s now or never to push, pry into Villanelle and make her want to tear Eve apart.

Eve steps forward. Villanelle’s hand unclenches, but she still doesn’t look at Eve. “You loved her,” Eve tries, though she doesn’t know if that’s even true. If Villanelle has the capacity.

Except -- Villanelle’s reaction is instantaneous. She crosses the distance between them, wraps her fingers around Eve’s neck, and pushes Eve back until she hits the wall, hard, palm pressing into Eve’s throat. “ _ Don’t _ ,” Villanelle growls, too angry.

“You won’t,” Eve breathes, barely making a sound.

Villanelle grabs her throat, pulls her a few inches off the wall, and then slams Eve’s head back against it. Pain shoots through Eve’s entire being, and the world swims around her, Eve’s ears ringing, and she blinks. “I will,” Villanelle counters, less angry now and more mesmerized, watching Eve’s expression.

She looks directly into Eve’s eyes, waiting for…  _ something _ . Eve can’t tell. Eve reaches up and puts a hand around Villanelle’s wrist, feeling her pulse underneath her fingertips. 

“Save it for the arena,” Eve manages.

Villanelle stares at her. Her gaze flickers down to… Eve’s lips? Eve thinks about it for a moment too long, because when Villanelle leans in, pressing her mouth against Eve’s, she isn’t expecting it at all. It’s soft yet blunt, almost uncomfortable, but there is still the tight hold of Villanelle’s hand on her neck, and now the soft press of lips on her own. Eve instinctively pulls Villanelle’s hand away from her throat, and Villanelle pushes harder against her windpipe, and --

_ Oh _ .

Villanelle’s tongue slips between Eve’s lips, urging her mouth open, faster and harder now, and Eve can hardly breathe, as Villanelle’s hand digs in deeper. She makes a small sound (something suspiciously like a moan), and Villanelle lets go, just a bit, but holds her there, against the door, and  _ kisses her _ .

When Eve finally, finally kisses back, moving her lips against Villanelle’s, it’s Villanelle who disappears, takes a huge step back, and everything is gone at once. The pressure on her neck, soft sensation on her lips, and it’s replaced by a flush on Eve’s neck and chest.

Eve stands there while Villanelle looks  _ wounded _ , swallowing uncomfortably.

Then, Villanelle takes two steps, brushes past Eve, and swings the door open. She slips out, leaving Eve alone.

 

.

 

Villanelle stands outside of Eve’s bedroom door in the middle of the night.

She can’t sleep, the night before the Games, despite knowing she needs her rest. It’s always like this. The night before anything, whether it’s a kill or an event or the goddamn Hunger Games, Villanelle can never sleep.

From the sounds of it, Eve cannot sleep either.

Villanelle doesn’t know how she managed it, but Eve is talking softly to someone. Talking on the  _ phone _ . Her mentor must’ve gotten it for her. 

Villanelle cracks open Eve’s door just a smidge and can make out the shadow of Eve sitting on the bed, facing away from her. Her hair a thick, dark halo around her head. Her shoulders curled forward and a sway to her voice. Villanelle listens and realizes Eve must be tipsy, at least, because she murmurs her words, lets the ends of them trail together.

“I know,” Eve sighs, and maybe, Villanelle guesses, this is just how Eve talks to her husband.

“I’ll always love you, Eve,” a tinny voice says on the other end.

Villanelle barely restrains herself from rolling her eyes. Even more so when Eve says back, “I know.”

There’s a long pause. A resigned, this-must-always-happen kind of pause. Villanelle feels bad for the man, for just a moment, and then smiles. He will probably cry when he watches her kill Eve on the broadcast.

“Niko,” Eve says, drawing Villanelle back. “Can you promise me something?”

“Sure.” A soft chuckle. “You’re always asking for things at the worst times.”

Eve chuckles, too. “I know. Sorry.” Eve reaches up and draws a hand through her hair. “Just… Don’t be alone forever.”

“ _ Eve _ .”

“No, I know. I just, I won’t be able to handle it if I think you’re never going to forget me.”

Villanelle makes a face in the dark. This is way too sappy for her. Her goodbye to Anna had just been tears on Anna’s end and a mouthful of salt and heat on Villanelle’s. She didn’t let Anna make her promise such things, and yet, she still remembered Anna.

“Okay,” Niko-over-the-phone says. “But I’m not going to forget you. Ever.”

“Okay,” Eve says back.

Villanelle returns to her own room. She lays on her bed and stares above her. She counts down the minutes until the sun rises, and then when it does, she gets up and gets dressed.

She walks with Konstantin to the hovercraft and they say nothing to each other. There is nothing to say. She knows she will come back, and she doesn’t know what Konstantin knows or thinks but she is grateful he doesn’t share these things with her. Before she boards the hovercraft, he turns to her, hardly any emotion on his face.

“You know,” he murmurs. “I’ve always loved you like a daughter.”

Something swells inside of her. She resists the urge to throw her arms around him. She resists that she even  _ wants _ to. Instead, she reaches for his hand, squeezes it, and smiles at him. “You are getting soft,” she points out.

Konstantin laughs. He puts a hand to the side of her head, puts his thumb on her cheek. “What are you,” he asks, smiling.

“Sensational,” she says back, smiling, too.

And then Villanelle gets on a hovercraft with half of the other tributes. They are all buckled into their seats, and Villanelle feels Eve’s absence on this craft like a hole inside of her chest.

When they arrive to the underground staging area, Villanelle is given a bodysuit that could be a wetsuit, but might not be. She is also given a thick jacket. She is given several different kinds of clothing that tell her nothing about what the Arena could be. 

She gets into the tube and stares at the sky above her as the platform begins to rise.

 

.

 

Eve feels the platform rise underneath her, her legs almost unsteady, unsure. She knows she needs to run. Get as far away from everyone else as possible.

_ Ten. _

The sky glows with the countdown, and like always, the simulated surface above them looks just like the open air. Villanelle crests above ground and immediately eyes the Cornucopia, zeroing in on a bag of knives, a bow, and everything she’s ever wanted sitting in the most dangerous place in the Arena.

_ Nine _ .

The twenty-four tributes are circled around a small clearing with the Cornucopia in the middle. The Arena seems to be a forest, with a line of trees encircling them, and Eve blinks at the artificial sun. She glances around her, finding Jess two points on the circle to her left. She’s grateful Jess is at the very least on this side. It means they might run in the same direction.

_ Eight. _

Villanelle flexes her entire body, tensing so she can run as soon as the cannon booms.

_ Seven. _

Next, Eve looks around the circle and finds Villanelle, five people to her right. Villanelle, who isn’t even looking at her. Only looking forward.

_ Six. _

Villanelle has never felt more calm. It’s moments like this: right before she kills someone, right before she runs to imminent death, and right before she takes the leap. It’s moments like this that Villanelle knows she was born for.

_ Five. _

Eve notices Raymond looking at her. Only her. She connects gazes with him, and he gives her a wide, eerie smile.

_ Four. _

Villanelle sees Raymond smile out of the corner of her eye. She sees  _ who _ he is smiling at and rolls her eyes. Of course. She adjusts her stance, just in case Raymond decides to go for Eve and Eve doesn’t have the common sense to just  _ run _ . Because Eve is hers.

_ Three. _

There is a bag to Eve’s left. If she runs fast enough, she can pick it up before she disappears into the forest.

_ Two. _

Villanelle is ready. More than ready.

_ One. _

And they run.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and... let the games begin. fucking finally.


	8. smother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let the Hunger Games begin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw - violence! lots of violence! death! descriptions of violence! this is the hunger games, folks.

Villanelle is twelve, and she is not counting.

She runs from the platform and kills as she goes, not thinking about who these people are, where they are from, only that their deaths are necessary

She does not count until the first night of the Hunger Games, after she’s found a place to settle down and watch the sky. Every face that shines that night is one of hers. She killed ten people the first day, a  _ record _ , but Villanelle is not counting.

She only counts the number of people who are left.

 

.

 

Villanelle is twenty-six and she is  _ definitely _ counting.

The woman next to her is the first. Villanelle grabs her, twists her arm around, and snaps it in half. Listens to her scream. She goes for the woman’s neck next, breaking it in one motion. A cannon booms. Adrenaline floods through Villanelle who walks (she does not run) to the Cornucopia.

The second is Amber. Villanelle remembers her name because she’d wondered why the girl hadn’t bothered showing up to training. Amber goes for a backpack, sees Villanelle, tries to run, and Villanelle lunges for her. She takes the bag, takes the knife that’s  _ in _ the bag, and shoves it into Amber’s stomach. Carves into her. A cannon booms; blood leaks out of Amber’s mouth.

Villanelle slings the bag over her shoulder.

The third is a man who kneels on the ground, praying. He looks at the sky and Villanelle slices the knife right across his neck. A cannon booms. Vaguely, she notices Eve sprinting into the forest, and thinks  _ good _ before continuing forward.

The fourth attempts to fight her. An angry girl with a wicked scar across her face who comes at Villanelle from the left. Villanelle dodges the attack, sweeps a leg underneath the woman, and shoves the knife into her back. The woman screams, and a cannon booms.

Villanelle looks up and sees Nadia grappling with an older, lean man in the Cornucopia. Diego comes out of nowhere, wielding what looks like a scythe, and cuts the man down. A cannon booms, and Villanelle shakes her head, wishing it was her. 

She wants to beat her record.

The fifth and sixth come at the same time. A man and woman who stayed in the area too long, fighting weakly for the same bag. To each other, they are at the same level, but to Villanelle, they are like ants. She takes them both easily, enjoying the way the blood spreads across her hands, and two cannons boom in succession.

Villanelle almost reaches the Cornucopia when she spots an elderly woman hobbling away. She walks afters her, slowly, and still beats her. The woman looks at her with wide eyes and says, “Please don’t hurt me.”

“It won’t hurt,” Villanelle responds before she snaps the old woman’s brittle neck. A cannon booms.

Everyone who could compete with them for the Cornucopia has vanished. Anton, Raymond, Eve’s friends. Villanelle has a count in her head. She reaches a bow on the ground and grins widely, taking her time to ready an arrow. She shoots, hits a man running on the other edge of the field. A cannon booms.

That’s eight.

She swings around to see a woman running in the opposite direction. Blonde hair, definitely not Eve. She pulls the cord of the bow, releases, and the woman goes down. A cannon booms. Nine.

Around them, there is no one left. No one except Nadia and Diego who are going through the items they’ve found. Villanelle walks toward them, pressing her lips into a tight line. Nine is too close. 

Killing Nadia and Diego would make eleven.

As she thinks about the pros and cons of this, she almost misses it when she walks past a boy on the ground. And he is a boy, definitely still a teenager, and he coughs up blood. Wheezes. He’s still alive. Villanelle kneels next to him and says, “What’s your name?”

“Gabriel.” Soft. Weak. Dying.

“When did you win, Gabriel?”

“Last year.”

Villanelle nods. She isn’t sad or happy to hear this, but something inside of her twinges. The same way it twinges when she thinks about what Eve might have already gone through, or what the other victors have to deal with. Not even eighteen, and Gabriel is here again. One nightmare after the next.

“It hurts,” Gabriel sighs, and his voice is clouded with blood.

“Dying hurts,” Villanelle tells him. Then, she takes her knife and slips it across his throat. She watches the light sink deep into his eyes until it is gone.

A cannon booms.

“Only ten,” she sighs.

Until she reaches Nadia and Diego in the Cornucopia to find they are  _ arguing _ . She doesn’t like the way Diego attempts to stand taller than Nadia, attempts to intimidate her, and Villanelle keeps a careful eye on the dagger at Diego’s belt.

“I think we should just stay,” he growls, getting too close to Nadia’s face.

“Ladies,” Villanelle breezes, stepping between them. “We’re supposed to be on the same team.”

Diego shakes his head, turns around, and when he begins to walk away, Villanelle takes her own knife and plunges it into his shoulder. She digs with it, cutting up his neck, and Diego screams until she hits the artery. He falls to his knees, and she gives him a shove.

He lands face first in the dirt.

“You --” Nadia rushes to Diego. “Is he dead?”

A cannon booms.

Villanelle smiles. “Yeah.”

Nadia shoots her a look. She stands, suddenly upset, and half-yells, “Why did you do that?”

“He was slowing us down!” Villanelle steps closer to her, brings her hand to Nadia’s cheek. Nadia swats her hand away, which does not feel very good, and Villanelle tries again. This time, Nadia lets her bring a knuckle to her cheek, stroking the soft skin there. “Hey,” Villanelle says, softer. “It will be okay.”

Nadia looks at Diego. She’s upset about something, and Villanelle knows she didn’t have time to actually start liking the guy. 

“Are you okay?” Villanelle tries, letting her fingers rest by Nadia’s ear. She draws small circles with her thumb, an intimate gesture, and Nadia relaxes into the touch. She stares hard at the ground, and when Villanelle tips her chin up, she finds Nadia fighting back tears.

“How do I know,” Nadia starts, her voice shaky, “you will not just do that to me. Because I  _ slow you down _ .”

“You won’t,” Villanelle says.

“But what if I do.”

Villanelle considers this. It would be easy, right now, to just snap Nadia’s neck and be done with it. But killing Nadia would only make things harder in the long run. She needs someone to watch her back, someone who she  _ knows _ will watch her back. So instead of bringing her other hand up and just tilting Nadia’s head the exact right way to break the bones, she brings her hands to Nadia’s cheeks, cupping them, and smiles at her.

It’s her most dazzling, intimate smile. And it hits Nadia right where it should.

“You will never slow me down,” Villanelle murmurs.

She barely has time to finish talking before Nadia throws herself at her, kissing her hard on the lips. Villanelle kisses back out of obligation, but when Nadia pulls away, blushing furiously, Villanelle wipes her lips with the back of her hand.

 

.

 

Eve really should work out more consistently.

That’s the thought at the forefront of her mind as she runs away from the Cornucopia. She’d grabbed one backpack on her way out of the clearing, and now she’s just inside the line of trees, not nearly far enough to be out of harm’s way. She didn’t see where anyone she knew ran, which direction they went. Fear overtook her in the last moment and she just ran.

Eve wheezes unsteadily. Catches her breath.

She continues walking deeper into the forest, until suddenly, the forest isn’t a forest at all. Her boots crunch on dirt and sand and suddenly, she’s too hot for the coat she wears.

She is in a desert. One step ago, she was in a plain forest, the air had been a muted seventy degrees, and now, she stands in what looks like a desert, canyons stretching out before her and the sun beating down. Hard.

Eve takes a step back. Keeps her eyes open to watch, and the world around her shifts. Like she’s walking through a portal or something. One step, she’s in the forest, the next, a desert.

_ It looks like a forest, but it’s not. Everything is a trick of the eye. Don’t believe what you see _ .

“Kenny,” Eve breathes. She takes one, two more steps into the desert. Everything feels so real, suddenly so different than the opening of the Games had been. A true feat in engineering. True enough, that were Eve still back in five, she’d probably be impressed. At least a little bit.

Something else from Kenny’s conversation comes back to her, too.  _ There are four parts _ .

Parts? Could that mean different areas with different traps, or different genomes?

All at once, Eve feels too exposed out in the desert. Before, she had the cover of trees, but there’s nothing like that for what looks like miles before her. She continues away from the Cornucopia, shedding her jacket and tying it around her waist. She unzips the top of her wetsuit, too, revealing the tank top beneath. She holds her arms out before her.

Usually, she doesn’t get sunburnt terribly, but the heat is already pricking at her skin. She can’t tell if it’s already getting tinged red or not.

Eve settles into a light jog, holding the backpack by the straps, and jogs until she can no longer. She avoids holes in the ground and tries to speed up when she’s between large rocks. She uses the rocks to hide, hoping they offer some sort of coverage. 

Finally, Eve stops at the edge of a small crater and next to a huge rock. She finds a few footholds and climbs up it, finding a small area to lodge in for the time being. If she peeks out over the rocks, she has a few for what looks like forever, and if she settles down into it, she’s pretty sure she can’t be seen. That’s the goal for now. Lay low.

It reminds her of the first time.

She pulls out the backpack and opens it. First thing, there is a large canteen of water. She takes a drink, relishing the feeling and committing it to memory. She’s saving it as long as she can manage. Next, packets of condensed food. She counts how many there are, and remembering her large breakfast, vows not to eat any until sundown.

A knife. She holds it, getting used to the feeling, and straps the holster to her hips.

A few other items: a packet of liquid Eve can’t identify, some antibiotics, and some pills without names on them.

“Useless,” she mutters. “What’s the point of pills if we don’t know what they do?”

She wishes for a drink. Out of everything she wants right now, she craves the sting of alcohol sliding down her throat. The burning in her chest. The wobbly feeling in her limbs and the fogginess in her head. She wants to drink and drink and sleep and then never wake up. Drink, sleep, die.

Stop. 

Think.

Okay. 

“Okay,” Eve says. She looks around. There is just rocks around her, so she scrabbles up and looks out into the sun.

Far off, she spots something black. A figure… Something.

Some _ one _ .

Eve instantly ducks down again, her heart racing. She presses her back against a rock, holding the knife to her chest. Could she kill someone, if she needed to? She didn’t need to in the first Games, mostly because she was able to be silent and slip away whenever she encountered someone. If she were found right here, however, there would be nowhere to run. 

It’s just open space. For forever.

Taking a deep breath, Eve stands again, slowly looking out over the rocks. The figure is closer, and Eve can definitely tell it must be a man. Short, dark hair, and slightly smaller build. The man stumbles, then keeps walking. Toward Eve.

She tightens her grip on the knife. She slides down back into a crouched position, holding her breath. The sound of his footsteps get closer and closer, and then, there’s silence. Eve waits.

A crunch -- The man slinks around the edge of the rock and into her view. She points the knife at him, and says, “Get back!”

He puts his hands up. Eve says, “Hugo?!”

“Eve?”

They stand there for a long moment; Eve points her knife at him and Hugo holds his hands up innocence. 

“Are you going to, um…” Hugo shifts, sweat beading down his forehead.

Eve remembers who he is, what she’s doing, and she quickly drops her hands. “Sorry. I’m on edge.”

Hugo nods, inching closer. He leans heavily against the rock, and Eve realizes there’s an unmistakable sluggishness in his movements. 

“Are you hurt?” She wants to go to him, but there’s still a palpable distance between them. He could kill her, she could kill him (she won’t), and all bets are off. 

He grits his teeth, and breathes, “A bit.” He shows her his arm, where there’s a large gash across the bicep. “Anton or-- Raymond. I think. Not sure. Whole thing was a blur.”

Finally, Eve decides Hugo isn’t going to kill her. Also, she decides she shouldn’t care, seeing as she’s going to die anyway. She walks right up to him, pokes at his wound, and inspects it. He hisses when the edge of her fingers grace the exposed skin of his arm. “It’s going to get infected. We should wash it.”

Shaking his head, Hugo says, “No. We can’t waste the water.” He looks up at the sky. “Not in this heat.”

Something occurs to Eve, so she asks, “Have you only seen desert?”

Hugo looks at her like she’s crazy. “As opposed to…?”

“You know, there was just a forest around the Cornucopia. I was wondering if maybe they… had other parts of the Arena that were different.”

Hugo shrugs, then immediately regrets it, as pain shoots through his arm. “Dunno. Could be. I’ve only seen sand.”

“Do you have any… supplies?” Eve doesn’t want to seem like she’s just using him for what he managed to get, but she has to wonder. If they’re going to be together for the time being, they have to be aware.

“Just a bag. Few pieces of food. Water. No weapons.” He nods at her knife. “You’ve got that, though.”

“Just this,” she sighs, pressing her back against the warm rock.

As the heat beats down on them, Eve is suddenly very grateful she has her hair tied back. She couldn’t imagine what she’d do in this heat with her dark hair down, her head cooking. She brushes wet flyaways off of her forehead, letting out a breath.

“I’ll be okay.” Hugo says it, but doesn’t sound entirely sure. Still, Eve nods. “So,” he continues, looking around, “What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know.” She doesn’t. She doesn’t have any idea.

 

.

 

Villanelle sits just outside of the Cornucopia, an array of weapons spread out before her. She puts them all into a formation, looking between each one, attempting to decide which she will carry. There is an axe, too large to drag around the arena, and there is a hatchet, which is just a smaller version of the axe. She decides to strap it to her hip.

“What is there?” Nadia calls, busy with counting their food.

“Axe, two bows, blowtorch, whip, throwing knives, a few daggers, a machete --”

“Ooh!”

“That one’s mine,” Villanelle says immediately, picking up the machete. She tries swinging it, and then turns to find Nadia pouting at her. “You can have whatever else!”

“Fine,” Nadia grumbles, but it is only for show. Villanelle can tell she doesn’t truly care too much. “What else?”

“Erm -- Some darts, a scythe, slingshot, a staff, and a spear.”

“Lots of S’s,” Nadia points out.

Villanelle laughs, surprising even herself. She puts the strap of the holder for the machete across her chest, then the weapon itself on her back. She picks up a tactical knife, weighing it in her hand, and then nods. With three weapons, she feels a bit safer. She grabs one of the empty bags and puts the darts and net into it. Even if there is nothing to propel the darts, at least whatever is inside of them can still be used. She hopes they are poison.

She also tucks the blowtorch into her bag, hoping it will come in handy.

She wanders back over to Nadia, who has all of the food and water bottles spread out. There are a lot of them, enough to last them many days.

“Very nice,” Villanelle murmurs. Nadia turns and beams at her. Continuing, Villanelle says, “We should each have food and water in our bags, then some weapons. In case we are separated.”

“What did you take?”

Villanelle shows her the hatchet and the machete, as well as the knife. She doesn’t show Nadia the other things in her bag because those are hers. “I think we should keep moving.”

“Why? We are the safest here.”

“You want to just stay here the whole time?” Villanelle stares at Nadia in disbelief. She cannot imagine doing anything as cowardly as camping out in the Cornucopia, no matter the advantage.

“I thought we could,” Nadia admits softly. 

Villanelle really wants to say, “And I want to kill everyone,” but that would be counterproductive. Instead, she walks over to Nadia and puts a soft hand on her cheek. It’s almost laughable how quickly the younger girl melts into her touch. “It’s just the two of us here. If a group with four or five people come, we will be killed.”

Nadia takes a step back. “This wouldn’t be true if you hadn’t killed Diego.”

“Nadia,” Villanelle scolds, shaking her head. “This is a killing game.” Villanelle raises her arms and spreads them wide, gesturing to the world around them. “A game. We need to find others before they find us, okay?”

There is a long moment where Nadia deliberates. Villanelle can practically see her weighing the pros and cons in her pretty little head, but Villanelle is impatient. Every moment they spend here without moving is a moment Eve takes to get further and further away from the Cornucopia. Villanelle itches all over, thinking about what Eve might be doing, and she hopes (she  _ hopes) _ Eve is smart enough to avoid getting killed.

Because the only person allowed to kill Eve is her.

“Okay,” Nadia says finally, nodding. 

So they gather their things, each taking a bag with enough supplies from the Cornucopia to last them a long while, and they head to what Villanelle supposes is the North, because she thinks Eve went that way. They exit the clearing, and Villanelle thinks about ditching her jacket because it’s weighing her down, until she takes a step and --

The world shifts.

The small clearing surrounded by trees suddenly becomes wind whipping across her face, an icy slap as she blinks at the now almost blinding light. The terrain is no longer soft grass, but hard, solid ice. Glacier.

Villanelle turns to see Nadia standing behind her, looking no worse for wear. “What is happening?” Villanelle asks, stepping back toward her.

Just as she takes the step, she’s suddenly transported back into the small beginnings of the forest. 

“What?” Nadia wonders. “What is wrong?”

“I don’t…” Villanelle turns around and faces the North again. “I don’t know.” She takes a step back, then points to Nadia. “Walk over there.”

Nadia’s reaction to the change is far more dramatic than Villanelle’s had been. She gasps, stumbling, and then turns to see Villanelle with wide eyes. “Do you see this?” she half-yells, most likely to be heard over the wind.

Shaking her head, Villanelle steps forward again. Sure enough, the world shifts back to the glacier, and the surrounding area appears to go on for miles and miles. She remembers, then, the preliminary plans for the map. She’d seen the Arena was split into four parts, and she wonders if there are other terrains, other parts that could be different.

“It’s an illusion,” Villanelle says, trudging forward through the thin layer of snow. She is suddenly grateful for her jacket, hugging it closer to her body. 

Nadia jogs after her to catch up, eyes still wide with wonder. “It will be dark soon. We should find somewhere to sleep.”

“I do not like to be cold,” Villanelle grumbles, but she has to agree. Now, as they’ve crossed into whatever this terrain is, she knows the sun sets sooner when it’s cold like this. “Maybe there is a cave.”

They walk for around twenty minutes, Villanelle attempting to pinpoint which direction they are going by using the landmarks. They walk for five minutes North, then another five minutes East, until turning North again. By the time the sky begins to darken, they are both cold and tired. They inspect every crack in the ice they find, but none of them lead to a cave. Villanelle is just about to give up and suggest they walk back the direction they came when Nadia, several paces away, hisses to her, “Villanelle!”

Villanelle turns. There, in the distance, is a stumbling figure. They both immediately crouch down, watching, their killer instincts taking over.

There’s a hum building in Villanelle’s chest, and she smiles. She will not let Nadia kill this one. Despite surviving, despite finding Eve and killing her (slowly), she wants to feel the thrill again. She wants to take a moment and have fun with it.

The figure takes another few steps and then disappears.

“Come on,” Villanelle murmurs, before taking off. She leads Nadia in the direction of where the figure went, and they find their cave -- already claimed by their target.

Leaning against a wall outside of a cave, Villanelle watches the light dance on the walls, smoke finding its way out of the opening in the glacier. Her mouth waters thinking about the heat, and when Nadia reaches her side, Villanelle steps into the cave.

She doesn’t bother hiding.

The man sees her and stumbles to the back of the cave. “No! Stop! Don’t come any closer.”

“And I thought this would be hard,” Villanelle pouts. She goes for the hatchet at her waist, enjoying how it feels, and the man eyes her, eyes the weapon, and then eyes something behind her. Probably Nadia.

“Which one are you?” Villanelle asks, tightening and untightening her grip on the hatchet.

“I--I’m sorry?” He crouches in the corner, gangly knees against his chest. 

“Your name,” she prompts.

The man looks at her, then at Nadia. “Andrew.” Villanelle nods, walking closer. Andrew shouts, “Please stop!”

“I’m not going to stop, Andrew,” Villanelle says to him. When she gets closer to him, he stands up, and she is pleased to see he is at least half a foot taller than her. This will be fun, if not a slight challenge. He advances on her, but is weaponless, so he doesn’t stand a chance when she swings her hatchet and hits him hard in the ribs. The blade connects with a sickening crunch, and Andrew slams into the side of the small ice cave.

Nadia gasps, watching, and Villanelle pulls the hatchet out and swings at Andrew’s neck.

It doesn’t cut through. She didn’t expect it to. Instead, it digs into his neck and blood spurts out and down his torso. He chokes, sliding down the ice, until finally, he falls to the ground.

Villanelle leans closer to him, watching his eyes. She watches the soul sink deeper into his pupils until it disappears. She imagines it getting trapped in there, with no light or sound, and never coming out. 

She hears a cannon boom.

 

.

 

Eve and Hugo walk until the sun starts to go down. Just as they decide to start looking for a new place to settle down, Eve takes a step forward and watches the desert around her morph into a white, flat landscape. Cold whips at her, and Eve, now understand what is happening almost immediately, takes two steps back until she’s wrapped in the warmth of the desert again.

Hugo bumps into her back. “What’s happening?”

“The Arena’s changing again,” Eve points out. She gestures at Hugo to walk forward, and he does, closing his eyes and stumbling back when he’s hit with the cold.

“That’s crazy,” he murmurs. “I bet the Gamemaker’ll win something hefty for that.”

“It’s confusing,” Eve agrees. “We should set up camp on the desert side. Even that’ll get cold tonight.”

Hugo murmurs his agreement, so the two of them find a crop of rocks to hide between. It’s not a great option, so they both talk about taking turns to sleep. Eve doesn’t necessarily trust Hugo, but she knows one of them staying awake is a better option than both of them. She opts to take the first shift.

Before either of them are asleep, the sky finally plunges into darkness.

Panem’s national anthem plays, before Caesar Flickerman’s voice booms throughout the arena. A projection of his face plays in the sky.

“Tributes! The worst day of the Hunger Games is now over, and we broadcast live to you our fallen tributes.”

Faces and names show up on the screen.

_ Jin Park. Amber Peel. Diego Bisset. _

“This is the worst part,” Eve sighs, leaning against a rock. She sort of wants to lean against Hugo, feel someone real next to her to remind her she’s not just trapped in some dream.

“At least it’s not us.” Hugo shifts next to her, letting out a breath.

_ Luke Jennings. Andrew Scott. Carla de Mann.  _

Eve stares at the names, not recognizing any right away. She supposes that’s a good thing. She doesn’t want to see Elena up there, or Jess. And despite everything, she hopes Villanelle isn’t up there, either. 

_ Gabriel Travers. Zhang Wu. Sonia Tattevin. _

Elena is in one of the latest districts. If she were dead, she would be last. Eve holds her breath.

_ Pamela Owens. Sebastien Depuis. Agniya Leverett _ .

Not Elena, Not Elena, Not Elena.

_ Vladimir Betkin _ .

The broadcast dies, the sky going completely black. Eve finally, finally lets out a breath, and Hugo turns to look at her. They share a moment of understanding, before Hugo rests his temple against one of the rocks. “I’m beat,” he says. “Should we snack a bit tonight or…”

“Tomorrow,” Eve corrects. “We don’t need food to sleep.”

For a moment, Hugo looks like he wants to argue with her, but he thinks better of it, turning and closing his eyes.

Eve stares at the sky. It’s the first time it’s looked completely not real; there are no stars. Even in district five, with possibly the most lights besides the Capitol, you can see the stars. Eve misses them. “You should’ve put stars in the sky,” Eve says softly. She’s hoping she’s talking to Kenny, hoping he’s listening.

She doesn’t hate him after all of this. She can’t bring herself to. She was born into her world, and he was born into his. There was nothing they could do to change it..

The same could apply to Villanelle, Eve realizes. Villanelle comes from a world that values power like this. Survival. Not for the first time, Eve wonders where Villanelle is, what she’s doing, who she is with. She wonders if Villanelle is having a good time, or if she’s having a terrible time. She wonders if Villanelle is hunting her in the same way Eve is hunting someone she can save, someone she can throw herself in front of.

She wonders if Villanelle is wondering about her, and after hours and hours of wondering, she wakes Hugo up for his shift.

Just as Eve falls asleep, she swears she sees the twinkle of stars in the sky.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sincerest apologies for not getting this up sooner. i was not incredibly happy with it, as i planned to end this chapter with eve and villanelle interacting at least SLIGHTLY, but it became too long. i had to readjust, and needed a few days to do so. that being said, i'm incredibly SORRY they do not interact. hopefully the stupid pining is enough to sway you until next time.
> 
> ADDITIONALLY, i am working on a book project and my deadline is the end of july. i am not making this story a priority before that, so i will probably not be updating on schedule for next week. sorry in advance.
> 
> THIRDLY, i love you all so very much! looking forward to your thoughts as we get this thing rolling. :)
> 
> (bonus points if u can guess who is who during villanelle's slaughter-spree)  
> (also, apologies to andrew scott, who plays the priest in fleabag. he's darling)  
> (also, congrats to all of killing eve's emmy nominations! planting the seed that we get some good fucking food when pwb/jodie/sandra interact)


	9. torn down from glory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eve knows, deep down, she doesn't want to die, now that death is so close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for... violence and blood and descriptions of bloody violence.

Villanelle is in a classroom, one so like the one she frequented after school hours to see Anna, but something is off about it. It shimmers like it’s an illusion before her, and yet Villanelle walks into it with steady, even steps. There, on the chalkboard are the words  _ Ms. Leonova _ . Villanelle goes to the board, resting her fingers on the dust, when she hears, “Oksana.”

Anna’s voice, the soft hum of recognition. Villanelle turns and sees her, takes in the wild, curly hair, and the dark, inquisitive eyes. Anna looks back at her, then says, “You’re hurt,” before quickly crossing the room. She puts a finger on Villanelle’s cheek, the touch immediately stinging a wound she didn’t know she had. Despite the pain, Villanelle leans into it.

Arms encircle her, holding her tight. Villanelle breathes, “Anna,” and Anna presses her lips to her head, kissing her hair. 

They stand there, Anna running a hand through Villanelle’s hair over and over again, holding her steady.

“Tell me you love me,” Villanelle murmurs into the soft crook of Anna’s neck.

A voice that is not Anna’s says, “I don’t.”

Villanelle straightens to find the woman in her arms is no longer Anna, but Eve, looking at her reproachfully. Villanelle shoves her back, despite a strong desire to stay in Eve’s arms, and Eve tilts her head. “You loved her,” she says. 

“No,” Villanelle insists. She lunges forward to kill Eve, but instead kisses her. Kisses her hard, with biting emotion behind it, and Eve… Eve kisses back. Just as Villanelle’s hands hit Eve’s hips and start to roam --

Villanelle wakes up. She shrugs out of Nadia’s arms -- at some point, they had fallen asleep intertwined (probably why Villanelle dreamed about  _ holding someone _ , which is pathetic), and as soon as she realizes this, she shoves Nadia away from her, not caring if she wakes her up. Nadia blinks, then marvels at the mangroves weaving into their small cave, the air now wet with heat instead of the arid cool they had fallen asleep in.

Now, they find themselves trapped. Villanelle attempts to pry apart the vines and squeeze through them, but little helps. Finally, she takes the machete on her back and starts swinging, grunting with each movement. She manages to cut through a few vines before stopping to catch her breath.

She turns to find Nadia just looking at her. “Are you kidding?” Villanelle almost growls. She grabs the hatchet from her hip and holds it out to Nadia. “We’re not safe here.”

Nadia seems to get the point. She starts hacking with the hatchet as well, and once they have cleared a way out of the tangle, they find themselves knee-deep in water. Villanelle groans, snatching the hatchet back from Nadia.

She isn’t in a good mood, after that dream. She doesn’t know what it  _ means _ . She doesn’t miss Anna, not like she used to, and now, Eve has somehow filled the spot in her mind Anna used to occupy. Eve is always there, tugging at her brainstem, and Villanelle can almost imagine Eve commenting on everything they’re doing. They are walking blindly, with no plan other than find and kill.

Villanelle is kidding herself if she thinks she has any idea how to track Eve. Not when the Arena seems to be shifting little by little. 

“What happened to the snow?” Nadia wonders quietly, and Villanelle guesses it took Nadia this long for her to fully wake up. She mentally catalogues that Nadia is a deep sleeper.

“The Arena is a trick,” Villanelle says simply, not enjoying the way she is now coated in sweat. “It moves. Everything is an illusion, meant to confuse us. Makes it impossible to navigate.”

If she had been watching from the outside, Villanelle would probably be impressed. Her and Konstantin would take bets on who would win, and right now, Villanelle doesn’t think she would bet on herself.

Every year, Villanelle makes an appearance at the Capitol during the Hunger Games. It’s her only requirement, as a victor who needs to remain somewhat anonymous. She gets sent around the country to kill various trouble-makers, doesn’t ask questions, but the President (or whoever employs her) knows it would look wrong if she didn’t attend the watch parties in the Capitol when she could.

It was a game she liked to play with Konstantin, the only true bonding they did in recent years. 

“I don’t like it,” Nadia concludes, tripping a little when her foot snags on an underwater vine.

Villanelle notices a ripple in the water, and she puts her arm out, hitting Nadia in the chest. “Be still,” she orders, her voice low. They stand as still as possible, waiting for the water to calm down and flatten.

It doesn’t. The ripples grow bigger, and Villanelle scans the dark water for whatever it is -- She zeroes in on a dark blur just underneath the surface.

It’s heading right for them.

Instinct flips her around, as she turns as fast as she can in the water. She yells, “Run!” at Nadia, hoping the other woman has the sense to follow, and she grabs at vines to help her along. They run, but it’s impossible to be quick when the water just gets deeper, so Villanelle uses all of her strength and attempts to pull herself up by a vine. Up and out of the water. The vines quiver under her weight, sagging down enough she has to reach higher.

Just as she manages to get out of the water, she feels Nadia grab at her foot, pulling her down again. “Get off,” she growls, “Grab your own!”

Nadia yelps, splashing back into the water as Villanelle kicks at her, and Villanelle whips her head around to see where the creature is. She can’t spot it, so she holds onto a tree and offers Nadia her hand.

Once they’re both up in the air, Villanelle spots it.

It’s what she guesses is a crocodile, but much, much larger than they should be. It’s skin shimmers softly, camouflaging it in the water, and Villanelle watches as it disappears in one moment before reappearing the next, right below them. It surfaces, snaps at the air unhappily. Villanelle and Nadia hang several feet above the water line, tangled in vines, and they have nowhere to go.

“How do we --” Nadia stares at Villanelle, petrified.

Villanelle wonders how Nadia even managed to get through training back in her district. She is too frightened by everything, too consumed by her own fear to think things through properly. Villanelle constructs a plan, while Nadia stares wide-eyed at the crocodile, and soon enough, Villanelle decides the only way to get through this is to fight.

“The plan,” Villanelle starts. She points at the water. “You drop down to distract it, and I will kill it.”

“That’s not a  _ plan _ ,” Nadia complains. “That’s me sacrificing myself so you can run.”

That had been one part of it, yes, but Villanelle doesn’t tell her that. “No,” she argues, “I’ll jump down onto it with the machete.”

“What if it doesn’t die,” Nadia whispers, but Villanelle can see her realizing one of them is going to have to be the bait.

“Okay, what if --” Villanelle pretends to think, to  _ consider _ Nadia’s words, knowing Nadia needs the comfort, “What if I am the one who jumps down first?”

Villanelle doesn’t exactly trust Nadia will be able to accurately kill this beast on her own, but her words do the trick, confirming what she was hoping for. By suggesting she be the one to taunt the creature, she solidified in Nadia’s head that Villanelle would risk her life for her. Now, all Nadia had to decide was which one of them would be better suited to kill the crocodile.

She picks Villanelle, and shakes her head firmly. “I will. You kill it.”

“Good,” Villanelle murmurs. “Very good.” She scans the water, searching for the shimmer.

Villanelle is pretty sure she has never really felt fear. She had been young when her father died, and all she had felt then was a rage that consumed her so entirely, a rage that fueled her and guided her. It carried her to the man who killed him, and it controlled her hand as she killed him and his entire family. Even as a child, rage had been her friend. 

Fear had no place in her. The most she knew of fear was instinctual fear, the kind that made you freeze or run or just  _ move _ , acting on pure instinct. She had learned during her first Hunger Games she was more in tune with her version of fight or flight than that of her fellow tributes. When instinct took over for Villanelle, instead of acting irrationally, she had a clear head. She always had a clear head when fear overtook her, and she had learned through the years that because of this, it must not be fear at all.

She doesn’t have a name for this not-fear, only knows she thinks the best when she is under pressure. When she needs to survive.

“When I say jump,” she tells Nadia, still scanning the water below, “drop down. And I will wait until it comes.”

Nadia nods, looking petrified, and Villanelle tells her, “Cut your hand.”

“What?” Nadia’s eyes widen.

“The blood,” Villanelle points out. “It will smell it.”

Nadia looks like she wants to argue, but instead she turns resolute, taking out one of her daggers and slicing into her palm. It’s a shallow, skilled cut, only surfacing a small line of blood, but Villanelle knows it will do the trick.

“Now,” Villanelle urges. “Jump now.”

If Villanelle questioned the hold she had on Nadia before, she no longer does. Nadia gives her a long, somber look before she lets go of the vines, landing hard back into the water. She stills as quickly as she can, hoping to keep the disruption at a minimum, and Villanelle watches.

Neither of them breathe. The sounds of the grove surround them: the soft trickle of water, birds in the distance, and the wind sifting through the trees.

And then Villanelle sees it: a shimmer in the water, moving fast and silently beneath the surface. She calculates the time it will take for her to drop, and when the moment comes, she lets go of the vines, machete in her hand and at the ready. She lands right on top of the thing, and the machete plunges right into the beast’s head, right through it’s skull. Except --

It keeps thrashing beneath her, and she clings to it as it begins to spiral in the water. It pulls Villanelle under water, then back to the surface, then under again, rolling over and over with Villanelle holding on as tightly as she can. It’s a lot like the torture training Konstantin put her through, she thinks, attempting to stay conscious.

“You must remain alive,” Konstantin’s voice echoes in her head. There is a drenched rag spread across her face, and she cannot see through it. Just the light, filtering its way through the barely transparent fabric, and she blinks as another barrage of water lands on her face, going up her nose and into her mouth, settling in the back of her throat. She sputters, and knows this is what drowning feels like. Drowning and dying in the same moment.

Villanelle releases the crocodile, hears the vague sound of Nadia screaming, and just as she slashes into the water blindly, she makes a connection --

The beast has attempted to chomp into her and just barely managed to nick her arm, but at the same time, she has jammed the machete into its mouth. It shatters the weapon, but gives Villanelle enough time to get her arm out of the way (she doesn’t think about the pain searing through her forearm and up to her shoulder), but swallowing a sword does terrible things to one’s insides, and the crocodile begins to bleed out of its mouth, quivering until it's still.

Villanelle stands, waist deep in the water, breathing hard, and waits until it dies before she says, “That made me tired.”

Nadia wades over to her, immediately inspecting the wound on Villanelle’s arm. “Does it hurt?”

Villanelle sends a withering look in Nadia’s direction. She mocks, “Does it  _ hurt _ ? Of course it hurts.” Despite her words, she starts walking the direction they had been going in the first place. “Come on.”

Reluctantly, Nadia follows.

 

.

 

Eve wakes up because she is freezing. Hugo isn’t awake, and she shoves at his shoulder, suddenly so angry he fell asleep, but it becomes obvious it wasn’t his fault, as her hand hits the oozing wound on his arm. Overnight, it has definitely become infected; the blood has congealed and the skin around it has blackened, and the wound itself oozes puss. For a brief, terrifying moment, Eve thinks Hugo is dead.

She wonders if the boom of a cannon could’ve woken her up, but as she grabs Hugo’s other shoulder, shaking him as hard as she can, he blearily opens his eyes. He blinks at her. “Are we under attack?” he asks, absolutely no alarm in his voice. 

Eve lets out a breath. “No, but I think you’re dying.” 

“It’s cold,” Hugo says, and Eve finally looks around them. Their alcove of rocks has turned into a wasteland, and they scrabble to find their coats. Overnight, the desert around them has morphed into the tundra, and Eve doesn’t like the memories it brings to the forefront of her mind.

“The Arena must’ve shifted overnight,” she says. She looks in either direction, chewing on her lip. “We have to get you somewhere warmer.”

“Should get some antibiotics,” Hugo points out.

Eve remarks drily, “I’ll just call the pharmacy,” and helps Hugo to his feet. They shrug into their coats, and Eve thinks it’s pretty lucky they didn’t freeze to death. There’s no telling what time the Arena shifted, or if it even did so gradually, but they start walking in a new direction, keeping their heart rates up and their bodies warm.

They walk, occasionally stopping to give Hugo bites of some of the food. Eve hasn’t eaten since yesterday, but her stomach has gotten used to it, so she wants to hold out for as long as she can. Eventually, they cross the Arena’s invisible borders, and Eve is surprised not to find desert, but a swamp. The wide open snow plains morph into a thick cluster of trees and mangroves, and the ankle-deep snow morphs into water, immediately drenching their boots.

Hugo takes one step and stumbles forward, landing in the water. His shoulder dunks under, and as he attempts to keep his head above water, he moans, “That’s probably not good for infection.”

He climbs shakily to his feet, but stumbles again two steps later. “Okay,” Eve says, putting an arm around his waist. “Sit over here.” She takes him to a higher area with ground poking out of the water, and they find a tree with a large enough trunk it’s almost hollow on the inside.

Eve doesn’t want to leave Hugo. She thought about it briefly when she woke up and found him almost comatose, and she thinks about it again when they both slide inside of the tree, Hugo resting against the bark. She counts their supplies again, estimating how much food she can leave him and how long it’ll last. A few days at most, assuming he survives.

Blinking back unconsciousness, Hugo murmurs, almost as if he’s read her mind, “Don’t leave me.”

“I’m not,” Eve says before she thinks about her words. Because she is. She has to. She carefully unpacks Hugo’s bag, taking about half of his supplies and adding them to her own, and then places the bag back next to him. He mutters something under his breath that she doesn’t catch, but by the time he’s unconscious, she slips out of the tree.

She tries not to think about how soon Hugo will die. With an infection like that, the only way he will survive is if he gets antibiotics delivered by a sponsor. She hopes he has rich relatives, or friends in high places. She tells herself, as she sloshes through the jungle, bugs buzzing around her, that it isn’t her fault if Hugo dies. She likes him, of course she does, but they will be sitting ducks if they stay in that tree.

Cringing, she realizes Hugo is a sitting duck even more if he’s by himself.

“Okay, Eve,” she murmurs, just as the water goes waist deep. She curses Kenny in her head, hoping there are no bloodsucking leeches hiding under the depths. “You can do this. Find Jess or Elena, stick with them. You got this.”

She repeats  _ You got this _ in her head over and over as she walks.

The heat starts to prick at her, as sweat pools everywhere sweat can pool: under her arms, on the back of her neck and in the small of her back, between her legs. She unties her hair, running her fingers through it to get rid of some of the grime, and then reties her ponytail tighter. 

She attempts to be as quiet as she can, wading through water up to her knees. The depth changes every once in a while, but she grips her dagger until she reaches firmer land. She attempts to stick to the land above the water line as much as she can, staring pointedly in front of her and not back. She doesn’t think about Hugo, about leaving him to die, and she’s  _ busy _ not thinking about Hugo when she hears voices.

Two voices. Both female. Her heart leaps in her chest because one of them might be Elena. Something about the speed in which she talks makes her feel like it might be, and she hurries to meet them, getting closer. She remembers herself, just as she recognizes one of the voices.

She freezes. The voice is undoubtedly Nadia’s.

Eve starts backing up, quick to retrace her steps. She has to hide, she has to get away  _ somehow _ .

She’s too slow, has gotten too close, because the voices appear from behind a tree and just as Nadia appears, so does her companion: Villanelle.

Villanelle freezes, and Eve can’t move. They watch each other, and Eve sees the blood coating Villanelle’s arm, the rakish wounds on her upper shoulder, glistening in crimson. Quietly, softly, Villanelle says, “Don’t run.”

A fear so poignant begins to run through Eve, almost like morphine in the way it licks from the base of her skull down to her fingertips, then her spine, settling in her gut with a solidity reserved only for the thickest of emotions. Her past thoughts ricochet through her head and it all sounds so easy, in theory. Find Villanelle. Offer herself like a piece of food at the end of a rope, held before an animal as a tease. It all sounds so easy, and now, it becomes too terribly difficult. Because Villanelle is a predator, every inch of her made and poised to kill. Despite every thought she has forced herself to think since getting Reaped, Eve knows, deep down, she doesn’t want to die, now that death is so close.

Villanelle says, “Don’t run,” and for once, Eve listens to her instincts.

Eve runs.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poor villanelle. now we are COOKING, folks. five days left of july and i have finished a book! wow! i will attempt to get back onto schedule, and hopefully my muse will permit because they are finally in the arena and together (thank god). 
> 
> this chapter is a lot shorter than all of the others, but i truly hope you understand why i needed to end it there :)


	10. chaos in calcuation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Villanelle is better than everyone in a lot of ways.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw for blood/violence/killing... graphic descriptions of aforementioned killing.

Running while knee-deep in water turns out to be an almost impossible task, but Eve tries valiantly anyway, splashing chaotically as she turns on her heels and dives into the mangrove. She doesn’t turn back, she doesn’t look anywhere except right in front of her, and the only sound in her ears is the thunder of her heartbeat. She uses the vines to help her along, distantly notes the sounds of Nadia and Villanelle taking chase, but she doesn’t dare look back, doesn’t dare risking a chance to see what Villanelle looks like when she’s hunting.

Eve’s feet find purchase on a harder forest floor, and no longer weighed down by the squishy ground, Eve breaks into an all out sprint. She knows she can’t outrun Villanelle like this; Villanelle is fit, can probably sprint after her for far longer than Eve can manage, but she tries anyway.

She wonders what Niko is doing right now. Is he at home, by himself, leaning forward on the couch with slight interest and worry creasing his brow? Is he pacing frantically across their living room? Eve wonders if the Capitol will let him stay in her house after she’s gone.

One second Eve is still in the mangrove, her breath catching up with her, and the next, she’s running straight into a plain, pine forest. She skids a bit, disoriented, before continuing into the trees. Out of the desert, tundra, and the swamp, the pine forest seems the least affronting. She doesn’t have time to take stock of the threats, whatever they may be, because the biggest threats are the two Career tributes on her heels.

She notes the sounds of confusion when Nadia and Villanelle cross the threshold, further back than she anticipated. 

Eve struggles to breathe, already winded after only a few minutes of running, and presses her back to a pine tree, attempting to even out her breathing.

She closes her eyes, listening. Villanelle says, distantly, “Where did she go?”

Nadia responds, “That way?”

They head toward Eve, the soft sound of their footsteps practically muted by the bed of pine needles underneath them. Eve holds her breath as they near, waiting until she can hear them move away. She waits, waits, waits --

Nadia’s voice, far off to her left. “I think she went this way.”

Villanelle, closer, grunts and Eve thinks she moves off. Finally letting out a soft sigh of relief, Eve takes a step into the opposite direction, placing her foot down silently.

Appearing before is Villanelle, grinning wickedly, as she says, “I got you.”

Eve stumbles backward, managing to run straight into the tree she’d been hiding behind. She falls to the ground, hard, as Villanelle shouts to Nadia, “She’s over here.”

As Nadia jogs over, Villanelle moves to stand over Eve, looking at her curiously, while Eve presses her face into a bed of pine needles, praying to whatever stupid higher power there is that she doesn’t die today. Not yet, anyway. She hopes, at least, Villanelle likes to play with her food.

“Why isn’t she dead?” Nadia asks, and Eve braves a glance up at the girl, whose nose is scrunched in confusion.

Villanelle reaches down and grabs Eve by her upper arm, pulling Eve to her feet. She places Eve with her back against the tree, her hands firm but not rough on Eve’s shoulders, before she says, “What do you mean?” 

Nadia gestures at Eve. “We should kill her.”

Eve looks between the two of them.

Nadia, just a young girl who won the Hunger Games incredibly recently, but Eve has no idea how she did it if she’s this timid. Villanelle, a born predator for whom killing isn’t an issue, Eve can tell, and some deep part of her is almost fascinated by how unaffected Villanelle seems by all of this. Even Nadia seems put out, almost disoriented by their circumstances, the Arena, all of it.

There isn’t concern in Villanelle’s eyes. No amount of consideration or even empathy, and she genuinely takes a moment to think about Nadia’s suggestion. Eve is sure it means she will be dying soon. When she finally says, “I don’t know about that,” it takes Eve by surprise. Eve doesn’t let the hope bloom in her chest, because she knows whatever reason Villanelle has to be keeping her alive will probably not be a good one. 

Nadia’s gaze darkens. “You  _ do _ like her.”

Rolling her eyes and letting out a soft, frustrated chuckle, Villanelle says, “Oh my God. You’re still jealous?” She waves her arms around them, gesturing vaguely at the entire arena, and Eve imagines drama comes easily to Villanelle, almost wearing emotions like layers, shedding them when they no longer suit the weather.

“No,” Nadia pouts, but her hand twitches at her side. She glances at Eve furtively, and her hand inches for the knife on her hip.

“Fine,” Villanelle concedes. “If you are so upset about it. Kill her.”

Nadia stares Villanelle down. Eve leans hard against the trunk of the tree, attempting to keep her balance. She feels like at any moment she could pass out. At any moment she could pass out or die or be killed or -- or --

“Fine,” Nadia growls, and she takes the knife out of its holster and goes for Eve.

There are only a few moments in Eve’s life where time has genuinely seemed to slow down. The first, with Dom when she was in the Arena so many years ago; she remembers her hand slowing down and the pain almost not even registering as the dull blade cut across her palm. The second, during a fight with Niko where she had shoved him against both shoulders, hard enough to make him stagger. And now, as Nadia comes for her, ready to kill, and Villanelle, who appears out of nowhere.

Eve watches with wide, clear eyes as Villanelle grabs Nadia by the hair on her head, tugs her by the scalp backward, and slices Nadia’s throat.

Eve watches for as long as it takes for her to start seeing red (the blood, pouring out of Nadia’s neck and across her chest), and then she runs.

A cannon booms. 

She does not think about, as she runs, how she hadn’t felt an ounce of horror or sickness when Villanelle drew the blade across Nadia’s skin, mere feet away from her. She doesn’t think about it, because she cannot bear to admit to herself she might’ve thought about how talented Villanelle is at this over anything else. Talented at killing, existing as a predator. 

Air burns in Eve’s lungs and she stops, finally, bending over and placing her hands on her knees. She cannot get the image out of her mind. The soft, crooked smile on Villanelle’s face as she crossed the distance to Nadia. The even wider smile appearing as she finally killed her.

Tears prick at Eve’s eyes, and now, she decides she wants to throw up. She feels sick not because she’s been confronted with what Villanelle truly is, but because she knows she  _ liked _ watching it happen.

The first year Eve stopped watching the Hunger Games, it had actually been Niko’s suggestion. They had attended the Reaping and watched all of the preliminaries together, Eve curled in Niko’s arms in front of the television. The first day, on the Bloodbath, Eve watched with rapt attention and analyzed every decision every one of the tributes made. She did not discuss her thoughts or her analyses with Niko, who only muttered about how rotten the Games were. She did not tell him watching the Games made her heart flutter differently than it had when she was a child, when the Games were something to be feared rather than expected.

Eve didn’t watch the Hunger Games because she hated herself for  _ wanting  _ to.

“Psst!” A voice calls out, and Eve whips around, ready to fight whoever it may be, before a dark figure pops out from a bush and grabs her. Strong arms wrap around Eve’s body, and she fights against them, until she realizes the body behind her presses uncomfortably against her lower back, a hard, warm bulge on their… stomach?

“Jess?” she breathes, calming down.

The arms let go, and Eve spins around and confirms what she’d been thinking. Other than a few rustled hairs out of place, Jess looks almost as good as the last time Eve saw her, before the Games started.

“Thought you were going to run,” Jess murmurs. “Sorry for grabbing you.”

Eve does the grabbing this time, rushing toward Jess and throwing her arms around her shoulders. Breathing into Jess’s hair, she says, “You have no idea how good it is to see you.”

Jess pats Eve on the back awkwardly. “Eve, everything okay?” When Eve pulls back, she catches Jess cringing a bit, recognizing a stupid question as she said it. 

Shrugging, Eve runs a hand over her head. She wants to take down her hair and dug her fingers into it, feel the pull of hair at her scalp, but she refrains from the urge. “Not really,” she admits, and she watches as Jess takes in her dirty clothing.

“Eve, did you…” Jess reaches up to Eve’s face and wipes her thumb across Eve’s cheek. “You’ve got blood.” She gestures at Eve’s face.

Eve immediately goes to wipe the rest away, supposing it came from Nadia’s neck when Villanelle… “Yeah,” she says, pushing the image out of her head. “Just, um, watched someone die.”

“The cannon, then. That was you?” Jess’ voice is quiet.

“I didn’t do the… The killing. But yeah.”

“Right,” Jess agrees. She looks around at the forest, at the sun lowering in the sky. “Look, I’ve sort of partnered with someone else at the moment, and I don’t know how inclined he’ll be to, um, have you join us, but you should stay for at least the night. I swear we’ve found the only safe place in this entire part.”

“What parts have you seen?” Eve asks, following Jess when she moves off in a different direction. 

“A really cold one, then a desert, and now this, the pines. You?”

“There’s a swamp,” Eve grumbles, deciding the mangroves might have to be her least favorite.

“Delightful,” Jess mutters, turning the word into three separate ones. She leads the way quietly, until Eve finds they are approaching a cluster of brambles taller than most houses. Jess skirts around the edge of it before revealing a small opening. “You sort of have to crawl,” she explains, holding away some brambles for Eve. “I’ll go first so Frank doesn’t get spooked.”

Jess puts a hand on her stomach before lowering herself to her knees. Eve finds herself, once again, grateful she doesn’t have a child waiting back home for her in five. After Jess disappears in the small, bramble tunnel, Eve follows her on her hands and knees. Eventually, she finds herself in a small clearing inside the brambles, and there is Jess, sat next to a lanky, nervous wreck of a man.

“This is Frank,” Jess tells Eve, gesturing at the man. “Frank, this is Eve.”

Frank doesn’t off her a hand, only scowls a bit. “We agreed it would be just the two of us.”

“Eve’s not going to hurt us,” Jess sighs. “I promise.”

Eve sticks to her spot on the ground near where they crawled in. She looks around at the mess of bramble around them. “Can we… Can people hear us out there?”

“Only if you speak loudly,” Jess responds. She grabs her bag and digs around in it before bringing out a water bottle. The sight of Jess actually drinking water, her throat bobbing up and down, reminds Eve of how little she’s eaten and drank.

Fatigue hits her across the head, then, and she sinks her elbows against her knees. A ragged breath escapes her lips, something too close to a sob for her to be letting out around these people, these practical strangers, so she internally tells herself to get over it. She sucks on her bottom lip for just a moment, biting the skin there to ground herself, and then she looks up at Frank and Jess. “Thank you,” she says, sending a glance in Frank’s direction, “for letting me stay.”

Frank stares at her, his jaw clenched, before he softens and nods. Just once, but it’s enough.

Looking at Jess, Eve sighs. “I don’t really want to tell you this, but I feel like I have to.” Off Jess’ confused look, Eve continues, “I was with Hugo. He got… hurt in the Bloodbath and I was taking care of him.” Eve looks down at her hands, tucked neatly in her lap. She picks at a hangnail on her left hand. “I left him. He was still alive, but too sick to move.”

A long silence stretches between the three of them. Finally, Jess says, “Do you think he’s still out there?”

“He must be,” Eve insists. “I haven’t heard a cannon other than…” Letting out a breath, Eve relays to them what happened with Villanelle and Nadia. Frank’s eyes go wide, while Jess just watches her intently. Unreadable. When she’s finished, capping off with Villanelle letting her run off, Jess slowly begins to shake her head.

“She’s playing with you,” Frank mutters. “Catching you, letting you go. She’ll find you again soon enough, and I’m not going to be anywhere near you when that happens.”

Putting her head in her hands, Eve lets her nails dig into her scalp. “Why does she even  _ like _ me?” She doesn’t tell them she might know the answer. She doesn’t tell them about the bathroom in five or the kiss during the ball. She doesn’t tell them because it doesn’t matter, because Villanelle only wants to play games.

Instead of answering her question, Jess says, “In the morning, we should try to find Hugo.”

“I’m staying right here,” Frank snaps. “Where it’s safe.”

“Yeah,” Eve echoes, surprising herself. “It’s too dangerous out there for --” She stumbles off awkwardly, not wanting to say because Jess is pregnant, but that fact hangs over the three of them anyway.

Jess’ hand drifts to her belly. Softly, she says, “I’m going to die, anyway.” She looks up at Eve. “Someone good should win this.”

“Why not you?” Eve wants to cry out, fight for Jess’ will to live, but she doesn’t, attempting to stay calm.

“Could be me,” Jess responds. “Or you. Or Hugo. Or Frank. Or anyone that isn’t Villanelle or the other psychos out there.”

Eve thinks suddenly to the people watching the Hunger Games. Is Bill up on their floor, watching by himself, or is he flanked by other victors who are watching their friends kill each other? She disagrees she should be even remotely near winning this, but now she is tucked safely into a nest of brambles, she finds the idea of winning may no longer be the worst thing in the world.

 

.

 

Villanelle cannot get the image of Eve disappearing into the forest out of her mind.

She did not follow Eve because she did not feel like running due to the body sagging against her and Nadia letting out an absolutely absurd amount of blood. A lot of the blood had, admittedly, gotten all over Villanelle’s bodysuit, so instead of following Eve, she took off the top half of the suit and tied it around her waist.

She started walking after Eve at a normal pace, and that’s what she does now, following the broken twigs and easily trackable path Eve laid for her. She stops, occasionally, to use what little sunlight remains to inspect the wound on her shoulder.

The bite mark spans from the middle of her upper arm to her deltoid, the deepest parts being where teeth sunk into her bicep. She prods at the incisions, watching sluggish, congealed blood well up, and sees most of the bleeding has stopped. It will probably only continue if she irritates it.

She has not really felt much of the pain. For most of her life, she has been good at compartmentalizing. When she was a girl, she fell and broke the small bones of her wrist, and despite feeling the worst pain she’d ever felt in her entire life, she cradled her hand and walked calmly back to the house. Her father had rushed her to the hospital, and only then did they give her something for the pain.

When she asked them if it was supposed to feel better now, they told her she was in shock. 

Shock, they had described, allows for someone to not really feel anything. It’s the mind’s way of surviving, allowing someone to keep on going despite their body wanting desperately to give up.

But as Villanelle grew up, she came to know shock as simply part of her. She decided, when she was a teenager (and after her first Hunger Games), what she experienced was not shock at all, just an ability to persevere. It made her different, it made her better.

She’s better than everyone in a lot of ways. 

So, Villanelle barely feels the sting of the bite in the ways she knows she should. Instead, she feels the adrenaline of a kill propelling her forward. She thinks about the way Nadia sagged against her, body going limp as the blood pumped and pumped. She thinks about Nadia dying, but she also thinks about Eve  _ watching _ , and the fact that she didn’t see an ounce of horror in Eve’s gaze, but rather something closer to fascination.

In walking and following Eve’s trail, Villanelle almost doesn’t notice when someone else turns up.

It’s Anton, his bald head shining gold as dusk approaches. He slips silently through the trees, yards ahead of her, and Villanelle doesn’t move. 

He moves off in the same direction Eve went, so Villanelle elects to continue following after him.

It is only when she hears screaming that she begins to run, following the noise, and she has her machete in her hand when she reaches a tangle of brambles. She circles it, decides the yelling and sharp voices are coming from inside of it, and she is just about to attempt to crawl underneath it when she hears a voice that makes her pause.

Eve.

Instead of getting on her hands and knees, Villanelle uses the machete to cut a path into the bramble mess, entering a small clearing and the middle of a heated, heated argument. Anton is there, holding a woman against his chest, and there is Eve, to the left, and another, tall man to the right. Villanelle thinks his name is Frank, if she remembers correctly.

“Hi,” she says, smiling sharply at Anton. “Having a party?”

“Hello,” Anton chirps, just as sharp. He tightens his grip on the woman (the pregnant one, Villanelle realizes), and Villanelle decides she is neither relieved or happy to see that he hadn’t managed to grab Eve. She decides that because admitting she is actually a bit relieved she will not have to negotiate around Eve’s demise means she is being weak. Stupid.

Eve calls to her. “Villanelle,” she says. “Don’t let him hurt her.”

Anton scoffs, looking between Villanelle and Eve, and he says, “Really? Her?” He makes a small sound of annoyance, but teasing. “I would’ve liked to think you would be smarter than that, Oksana.”

Villanelle rolls her eyes, letting her body relax. She knows how to disarm people, both literally and figuratively, and she watches Anton notice her muscles lose their tension. “She is nothing,” Villanelle says. She doesn’t attempt to convince him further, knowing the more she objects, the more he will realize he is right. And perhaps this is a problem, Eve existing and digging into Villanelle’s brainstem like a persistent tumor.

Because Eve isn’t nothing.

“I heard screaming,” Villanelle continues. “I had been hunting you, but… adding four to my record will be better.” She nods, as if to be reassuring herself, and Anton’s confident look slips just a little.

Frank pulls a dagger out, shakily pointing it at Anton, then at Villanelle. He takes a step back, leaning against brambles, and Villanelle feels the fear wafting off of him in waves.

Despite Eve’s request, Villanelle only sees one way out of this. She lunges for Anton, barely noticing as he takes the woman’s neck and snaps it before throwing her to the side, her limp, pregnant body hitting the ground hard. She thinks she hears Eve yell out, and she sees Eve in her periphery fall to her knees and crowd around the woman, crying, but Villanelle doesn’t focus on Eve. 

She focuses on Anton with only one goal in mind: winning. A cannon booms.

He doesn’t have a weapon. He grabs her wrist when she swings the machete, disarming her with a bit of a struggle, and before she can grab another weapon he goes for a punch. She blocks, kicks him hard in the ribs, listening to the satisfying  _ whoosh _ of air being forced out of him. 

They fight hard and heavy, strong hits landing on both sides, and when Anton hits her in the face, right in the cheek in a way she’s sure is going to bruise, she allows herself to get angry.

Anger usually doesn’t suit her when she’s fighting or surviving. Anger doesn’t have a place in her day to day, making her weak and revealing the small breaks in her emotional armor. But now, she lets herself get angry because she starts to hit harder and more precisely, and Anton stops trying to hit back but rather prevent her from landing anything.

He stumbles to his knees, Villanelle pushes him to the ground, and soon enough, she pins him down and slams her knuckles into his face once, twice, three times, and four. Anton groans, now closer to a bloody pulp than a person, and Villanelle goes for the knife at her waist.

Just as she goes to plunge the knife into Anton’s forehead, a body slams into her from the side. She notices it’s not Eve, but must be the other man who had been standing in the clearing. Frank.

Villanelle plunges her knife into Frank’s stomach, just as Eve yells, “Don’t kill him!”

 

.

 

It surprises Eve when Villanelle stills, almost freezing in place, actually  _ listening _ . Eve ignores the fire burning in her gut after watching Villanelle tear Anton to pieces and tries to focus on the positives. She can’t save everyone, but Frank has done nothing wrong. He curls into himself, clutching the knife in his gut, and Villanelle stands over him, covered in blood. She looks to Eve, waiting.

Frank whines in pain. Villanelle holds a hand out to him, says to Eve, “He is bleeding out.”

“Fuck,” Eve breathes. She doesn’t know what to do.

“I should just finish it,” Villanelle points out. “You told me to stop too late.”

“I didn’t  _ think _ you were going to listen!” Eve puts a hand on her forehead, attempting to think of a solution. Frank will die, yes, but she can’t tell Villanelle to -- to  _ finish  _ him.

“Please,” Frank mutters, weakly grasping at the knife in his stomach.

“He is dying,” Villanelle says, pressing her lips together. Eve wants to hit her, for how unconcerned Villanelle looks about all of this. She didn’t expect anything else, honestly, but whenever she is confronted with Villanelle’s lack of humanity, somehow it continues to shock her.

“I --” Eve looks at Frank, at the pool of blood growing underneath him. 

“Tell me,” Villanelle says. “Tell me to kill him.”

Eve blinks. She is hit with a wave of nausea like a ton of bricks, and she clutches at her stomach. The smell of iron doesn’t make it any better, and she weakly says, “Do it.”

Villanelle does not wait. Eve almost tells her to stop again, but it doesn’t make any goddamn sense why Villanelle is even listening to her. But when Villanelle grabs the knife already in Frank’s abdomen, pulls it out, and digs it into Frank’s brainstem, she realizes what Villanelle has done. Eve gave a kill order, and Villanelle followed it.

Eve throws up.

 

.

 

Eve does not say a single word as she sits next to Villanelle in darkness, the sky showing the faces of who has died. When Jess’ face appears, Eve looks away and into the trees, the dark shadows looking more and more inviting. She wants to lose herself in them.

She no longer wants to run. She no longer feels afraid to sit next to Villanelle because at this point, if Villanelle killed her in her sleep, Eve would be glad.

Hugo isn’t dead yet, according to the sky. There are no announcements for feasts of any kind, and Eve supposes it’s good the tributes are entertaining enough.

“I will keep watch,” Villanelle offers quietly.

Eve is glad Villanelle hasn’t said anything stupid or mean or degrading yet. She doesn’t think she could take it. They moved off from the bramble bush and found a smaller, more uncomfortable one to hide in for the night. 

Eve does not say anything even though Villanelle looks almost as exhausted as Eve feels, and instead turns over and lays on the cold, hard ground, letting the dirt absorb her body heat until she finally slips into sleep.

 

.

 

Eve seems a bit broken as she walks next to Villanelle. She doesn’t talk, except to sometimes make small noises when they climb over things, but the only thing Villanelle wants to do is talk. She wants to ask Eve about how it felt, she wants to see if Eve is okay, but they ruminate in the silence, Villanelle leading the way to wherever they are going.

Finally, after they have been walking for some time, Eve breaks the silence to ask, “Why did you kill Nadia?”

Villanelle shrugs, not having expected that. “She was annoying.”

Eve stops, squinting at her. She steps into Villanelle’s face, the hard edges of anger on her features. “Annoying? You killed someone because they were  _ annoying _ ?”

Raising a brow, Villanelle says slowly, “Did you also conveniently miss when she threatened you?”

“The fact that you did it for me makes it worse,” Eve scoffs. “Not better.”

“I did  _ not _ do it for you,” Villanelle snaps. 

Eve takes a step back, running a hand over her forehead. She immediately starts to untie her hair, dragging her fingers through it in a frustrated pull, and Villanelle stares intently as she ties it up again. “Yeah, you did.”

Villanelle rushes Eve, shoving her into a tree. She gets close to Eve’s face, ignoring the way her own heart thunders at the proximity before snarling, “I do not think you should talk to me like that, Eve.”

“Why am I still alive?” Eve hisses at her, not backing down. “Why haven’t you killed me?”

“Stop,” Villanelle growls. 

“It’s because you  _ can’t _ . You  _ can’t _ kill me, because you  _ like _ me for some fucking weird reason, and I think you --”

Eve cuts herself off because Villanelle lets go of her. Villanelle lets go of Eve and walks away because she cannot do this right now. She doesn’t know if Eve is right, but she desperately wants Eve to be wrong, so Villanelle walks away because she cannot be  _ near _ Eve. She walks away because she wanted to keep Eve alive, but now, now she is forcing herself not to give a goddamn fuck.

“Hey,” Eve calls after her. Eve follows her, catches up to her, and grabs her elbow, turning Villanelle back around. “Where are you going?”

“You obviously do not want my help,” Villanelle says simply. She is more in control of herself now, now that the only place she is touching Eve is where Eve touches her, just inside of her elbow.

Eve stares at her. Villanelle can tell she’s deciding whether or not she wants to be near Villanelle, and part of her wants Eve to choose her, to not run away, to not be  _ afraid,  _ but not to be so fearless she will pick a fight.

Ultimately, Eve says nothing, but the fight melts from her shoulders and dissipates. While they stand there, Villanelle lets herself look at Eve’s body, Eve’s lips. Those, she lingers on for a long moment before she looks back at Eve’s gaze. “You are sweaty,” Villanelle offers, a verbal truce.

“Yeah, well. It’s hot.”

Neither of them want to move. Villanelle doesn’t want to break the tension by backing down, and Eve, Eve doesn’t want to seem weak.

“Did you do it to save me?” Eve asks quietly. Non-confrontationally.

Villanelle’s hackles raise, just a bit. “Of course not,” she lies.

“You said you did it because she threatened me.” Eve looks at her, gaze unwavering.

Villanelle finally, finally turns around, breaking the taut string between them. She rolls her shoulders back, adjusting, and says, “That is only because I want to be the one who does it.”

“Do what?”

Turning, Villanelle takes one, two steps back until she is close enough to Eve to smell her. She takes out her dagger, dragging it down the length of Eve’s throat. She pauses between Eve’s breasts for a brief second before coming down and poking just against her navel. “I will kill you,” Villanelle promises. “I can. And I will.” She flashes Eve a smile. “Don’t forget who I am, Eve.”

Threats are easy. Threats are just that, threats. They are words to fill the void, words that mean something and the promise of a future, but they are not always the truth.

This threat, though, has the desired effect. Eve shivers when Villanelle removes the knife, and Villanelle knows she is on top again, confidently teetering at the tip of Eve’s metaphorical ladder, so she is also confident Eve will follow her and not run again.

“Now,” Villanelle says. “Let’s keep going.”

She does not miss the way Eve’s gaze darkens just the slightest bit, before Eve ducks her head down and starts after her.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ok this took as long as it did because this chapter was a fucking DOOZY to write... oh man. all villanelle wants is her record u guys :( 
> 
> will be going out of town for the next week and will probably have time to write but no time to upload, so jsyk.


	11. better alone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nobody wants to bleed, but everybody does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw... slight dub con, violence... 
> 
> put on some "better alone" by lykke li if u really want... to feel it :)

Eve is not nearly as exciting as Villanelle had guessed.

Villanelle tries asking Eve questions about her life, as they walk through the pine forest with no obvious end goal, but Eve gives her one word answers consisting of either a short, simple answer, or a snarky comment that only serves to annoy Villanelle more than anything. At one point, Villanelle asked about Eve’s childhood, and in response, Eve had snapped, “None of your business,” and all Villanelle wanted to do was slap the insolence off Eve’s face.

She’s trying to be  _ nice _ . She killed Nadia for Eve, she killed Anton, who would have definitely killed Eve, and Eve is giving her nothing to work with.

Perhaps the most annoying thing about it is that Eve, despite being sweaty and covered in dirty and scrapes, still looks almost effortlessly beautiful. Villanelle almost regrets taking the lead, only allowing herself a few glances in Eve’s direction to make sure she hasn’t walked off. Every time she looks back, she meets Eve’s hard stare, so she indulgently traces the muddy column of Eve’s neck (where the small bits of hair sticking out of her ponytail are stick with sweat, curling against her skin), the soft swell of Eve’s abdomen (now only covered by the thin undershirt in the warm weather), and her legs, strong and toned, even against the skin tight suit (Villanelle doesn’t imagine Eve’s thighs quivering, struggling to stay standing, because that would be distracting).

If Eve notices Villanelle’s eyes following every inch of her, she doesn’t say anything.

Pausing, Villanelle stands very still, listening to the Arena. In the distance, she catches the muted sound of roaring water. “This way,” she urges Eve, and they start climbing a small hill coated with trees and brambles that grow thicker and lusher as they approach a water source. At the top, they find themselves overlooking a waterfall, cascading down the rocks and creating a cool, refreshing mist. At the bottom, a small pool.

Not being able to stop herself, Villanelle grins widely, taking in the sights. It’s not often she gets to step out of the city, as most of the wilderness outside of the districts is unmonitored and therefore off limits, so she lets her eyes flutter closed, letting the mist settle on her face and her bare shoulders. The tickling sensation of it is almost enough to make her forget about the dull ache of the bite.

Turning to Eve, Villanelle says simply, “We will have to jump.”

“Jump?” Eve braves a small step toward the edge of the cliff, attempting to look down. Villanelle would not have guessed Eve to be afraid of heights, but Eve does not get closer. “Are you crazy?”

Shaking her head, Villanelle holds a hand out, watching small droplets accumulate on her tanned skin. “You, first.”

Eve takes another step back. “No. I’m not doing that.”

Villanelle fights the urge to roll her eyes. Instead, she nods assuringly, beginning to lead the way down the hill. “We will have to go the long way, then,” she concedes, and Eve takes a moment to be surprised, eyeing Villanelle cautiously. She had not been expecting Villanelle to listen, but then again, a lot of people don’t.

Eve is only surprised for a moment before Villanelle rushes her, using both hands to shove Eve off the edge of the rock and into the pool below.

While Eve falls, Villanelle really hopes Eve doesn’t hit a rock on the way down. Seeing her beautiful hair caked in blood would really be a mood dampener. But Eve lands in the middle of the pool just as Villanelle thought she would, and as soon as Eve surfaces, sputtering for air, Villanelle runs to the edge and gracefully swan dives after her.

She feels weightless, tumbling through the air, and Villanelle thinks, as she plummets, the chaos of nature is what she likes second best about the Hunger Games. She had forgotten how beautiful it could be, and now that she’s here, she supposes she might just enjoy it.

There is instant relief when Villanelle reaches the water, the coolness covering her entirely. As she moves her arms through the water, it occurs to her Eve might not know how to swim. She surfaces, smiling, and finds Eve looking like a wet rat but, at the very least, treading water. Eve glares at her, and Villanelle spins around, kicking her legs.

“You have to admit,” Villanelle says breathlessly. “This is beautiful.”

Eve swims over to where the water shallows out. She sits down, water in her lap, and says, “It would be.” Villanelle floats closer to the waterfall. “If you weren’t going to kill me.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Villanelle says loudly, so Eve can hear her over the waterfall. “Everyone dies.”

Eve doesn’t give her a response.

Villanelle finds a place where she can stand and opts to strip out of her bodysuit, revealing just the Capitol-sponsored sports bra and underwear. She lets her hair down, half standing in the spray of the waterfall, and rubs at her skin, attempting to get clean. The water digs into the wound on her upper arm, but she grits her teeth and deals with it.

She catches Eve staring at her more than once. Each time, Eve looks down or away or just somewhere else, and Villanelle remembers when Eve kissed her back.

“Aren’t you going to wash?” Villanelle wonders, walking over to Eve, who hugs her knees to her chest. 

“I’m still getting over the fact that you pushed me off a cliff.”

“Come on, that was barely a cliff.” Villanelle turns and looks at the rocky edge she’d pushed Eve off of. The fall, even if it hadn’t been into water, would not have been remotely fatal. Painful, yes, but not fatal. “You know,” she says, going to sit a few feet away from Eve. “It occured to me at some point that you might not know how to swim.”

Eve scoffs, almost bewildered. “Before or after you shoved me off a  _ cliff _ ?”

“After,” Villanelle offers. “Look. I am not going to hurt you anytime soon. I will need to use you for some things, later on.” Eve looks interested, but Villanelle doesn’t elaborate. “I would like it if you washed off, because as alluring as you are covered in shit, you are even more so when you are clean.”

Eve stares at her. Villanelle knows she’s probably working through how blatant Villanelle is, but Villanelle has never really been someone to beat around the bush. Flattery is often the easiest way to wriggle your way into someone else’s mind, and if she’s going to have actual fun with Eve before the Games ruins them both, she’s going to do it thoroughly.

Finally, Eve unfurls herself and stands up. Carefully, she slides out of her body suit and walks deeper into the water in just her undershirt and underwear. Villanelle watches unapologetically, remembering Eve’s dress at the ball, and the soft thrum of Eve’s heartbeat under her hand when she’d shoved Eve against the wall. 

Eve wanders to the waterfall and pointedly does not look at Villanelle, who is staring at her. She scrubs at her arms, briefly lifts her shirt to wash away the sweat, and Villanelle moves to dry ground to lay out and dry off. 

The sun warms her, despite it not being as hot as it was in the mangrove, and Villanelle lets the heat lap at her skin, not bothering to cover up. She keeps her eyes half-open, careful to listen to the world around them, but she does not hear Eve come up next to her. She doesn’t notice Eve is there until she opens her eyes and finds Eve staring at her, just feet away, with something lost in her eyes.

Villanelle recognizes that look. It’s the look of someone who wants out so desperately, but they can’t get out.

Villanelle knows Eve wants to kill her. Eve wants to be rid of her, tear Villanelle open and see if she’s actually living and breathing on the inside, like so many people have tried to do. Villanelle knows that look, and honestly, never really expected to see it on Eve. But, she also knows what someone who cannot kill looks like.

Eve, she decides, will only kill if she has to. Villanelle has not given her a reason.

“Better?” Villanelle asks, propping herself up on her elbows. Absently, Eve nods. She sits down a few feet away from Villanelle. “You know,” Villanelle continues, “Your shirt will dry faster if you take it off.” She gives Eve a lazy smirk.

“Not happening,” Eve murmurs, closing her eyes.

 

.

 

Eve stares at the rocks just underneath the surface of the water, watching the light dance across them, watching as fish dart in and out of small hideouts, before she begins to realize she is not, in fact, staring at the rocks, but rather Villanelle’s reflection in the water, as she stretches her arms above her head. There’s the hint of gold shimmering on the surface of the water as Villanelle runs a hand through her hair.

Eve does not think about Villanelle’s body. 

Well, she  _ does _ , but definitely in that I-wish-I-was-still-in-my-mid-twenties kind of way. Villanelle has  _ abs _ , for God’s sake (and not the kind someone gets from being malnourished), and she certainly has no problem showing them off. She’d washed herself in possibly the most infuriatingly seductive way, and Eve she’d been caught staring more than once.

Eve had settled to the edge of the small pool, reeling from Villanelle’s hard shove and the sudden falling, and Villanelle had taken to standing in waist-deep water. She had cupped her hands and splashed the water onto her arms, rubbing the skin (quietly avoiding the bite Eve had yet to ask about), and then she had splashed the water onto her chest, drenching the thin tank she wore. Her breasts, pinned against her chest by a smartly fitting sports bra, had become all the more noticeable once soaked with water, and Eve had immediately thought about reaching out a hand, touching --

But she sat too far off. She also wouldn’t be doing anything like that, she reminded herself, and now, as Villanelle lies in the sun next to her and Eve stares pointedly at rocks, she thinks back to the bathroom, to Villanelle pressing into her, her lips hurried and wanting, and Eve blinks, staring hard and harder at the rocks. 

“We should keep moving,” Villanelle murmurs, and Eve turns to her properly, avoiding letting her eyes rake over the exposed skin baking in the sun. Villanelle opens her eyes a smidge, meeting Eve’s gaze. “We can’t sleep here.”

Nodding, Eve stands. She waits for Villanelle to join her, but when she doesn’t, she looks to see Villanelle holding a hand up like a child, waiting for Eve to help her. “Come on,” Eve grumbles, not moving to help her.

“Pull me up,” Villanelle whines, grinning. 

Eve crosses her arms. Then uncrosses them. A full minute passes before she finally scoffs and grabs Villanelle’s hand. She isn’t ready for the instantaneous way Villanelle grabs her hand, or the heavy weight of Villanelle’s body as she pulls her to her feet. Villanelle pops up, her hair almost dry now, and smiles at her. 

“Thank you,” she says, mocking a curtsy. Eve rolls her eyes. Turning around to surveil their surroundings, Villanelle puts her hands on her hips. “I think staying in this area for the evening is probably a better idea. It’s not… too treacherous.”

Eve is about to respond, but her stomach gurgles loud enough they both hear it quite clearly. 

Villanelle looks at her stomach, then places a hand on her own abdomen. “I’m hungry, too.”

“I didn’t say I was hungry,” Eve protests, but weakly, because she is.

“Your stomach did,” Villanelle points out. “It is fine, Eve. We will have to hunt or something. Get enough water while we can, and then we’ll go to higher ground.”

Dropping to her knees, Eve begins to dig through her bag, searching for the small packets of food paste. As unappetizing as they are, they’re at least filling. She finds two in her own bag, and looks up at Villanelle. “I have two left. You?”

Shrugging, Villanelle says, “I don’t have any.”

“What?”

“I said I don’t have any.”

“You --” Eve stands, suddenly panicked. “We’re not even going to get killed out here, we’re just going to  _ starve _ .”

“Eve, relax.” Villanelle eyes her wearily. “It takes a lot of time to die of starvation.”

Waving her off, Eve does the math in her head. She thinks about the Arena itself, and how she hasn’t seen really any living creatures or evidence of creatures (other than the bite on Villanelle’s arm). Of course, there would be no food other than what the Capitol provides. Of course. Which means there is going to be a Feast soon, something to draw all of them together. When that happens, they should be closer, not further away from the Cornucopia. “A feast,” Eve murmurs.

“What?” Villanelle steps closer to her, and Eve doesn’t look at the way her stomach ripples, the muscles there clenching and unclenching.

“I can’t say it out loud,” Eve confesses. “They might hear me.” She doesn’t want to get close to Villanelle, but she motions of Villanelle to come closer to her. Villanelle leans in, somehow smelling sweet and earthy and not at all dirty, and Eve gets as close to her ear as is comfortable. She wrinkles her face a bit when a small piece of Villanelle’s hair tickles her nose, before remembering what she wanted to do. “I think,” Eve continues, “there aren’t any animals in the Arena, so --”

“I think you’re forgetting,” Villanelle interrupts, turning her head, and her lips are suddenly extremely close to Eve, “about the terrible animal who did this to me.” She gestures to the bite on her shoulder that honestly doesn’t look good. Eve notices the small parts where it’s attempting to scab over, but also where the still wet parts of the wound are turning brown and in some places, almost green.

“Just that one, though, right?” Eve leans in again. “There’s going to be a Feast, which will push everyone back to the middle. There aren’t a lot of us left, and everyone is probably running out of food.”

Villanelle turns again (Eve doesn’t think about Villanelle’s gaze flicking down to Eve’s lips), and then smiles.

Taking a step away from Eve, Villanelle says at a normal volume, “I think we should make our way toward the center, so I can take out anyone we might come across.” She gives Eve a wink, then turns and starts in the other direction.

 

.

 

Villanelle once again leads the way as they walk back toward the center of the Arena. Eve watches as the sun reaches the middle of the sky, then begins to tip over into the afternoon. The Arena warms around them, giving Villanelle no reason to put her shirt back on, and Eve suddenly finds herself wishing Kenny could maybe turn down the temperature a bit. It would be easier to think about not dying if Villanelle not wearing a shirt and walking four feet in front of Eve wasn’t so damn distracting.

She’s so distracted that when Villanelle stumbles into a tree, Eve kicks herself for not realizing it sooner.

“Whoops,” Villanelle mutters, righting herself, as Eve rakes her eyes over Villanelle. Her skin is paler, not as golden as it had been when they were by the waterfall, and there’s a thin layer of sweat across her brow.

“You’re getting sick,” Eve says needlessly.

Frowning, Villanelle glances at her. Her brows crease in annoyance. “I do not get sick.”

“Not like a cold,” Eve argues. “Your bite’s getting infected.”

Villanelle shrugs her shoulders, wincing immediately when pain shoots through her, before attempting to act casual. “I’ll be fine. It won’t kill me before all of this is over.”

She attempts to keep walking, and Eve watches as she stumbles over a few twigs and branches on the ground. “It might,” Eve points out.

“It won’t,” Villanelle fires back, her voice harder this time.

“You don’t know that.”

“And you don’t know your thing, either.” Villanelle attempts to walk more purposefully now, taking measured, careful strides.

“I do, actually.” Eve struggles to keep up with Eve’s long stride. “I’ve volunteered in hospitals for a while now.” That part is true, Eve reflects, but whether she knows anything verifiable about medicine is questionable. Finally, she reaches out for Villanelle’s hand, pulling her back. “It doesn’t look good.”

Stopping and turning, Villanelle looks down at their joined hands, then back at Eve’s face. Quietly, she slips her hand out of Eve’s grip, letting her hand fall back to her side.

Just as she opens her mouth to argue, they both hear voices coming through the trees. Villanelle stands immediately straighter, then still, just listening.  _ I don’t really know, do I? _ a voice says, and Eve hears it clearly, almost like a punch to the gut. She steps forward, intending to run through the trees and get as close as possible to that voice, because the voice is Elena’s voice. 

Eve takes a single step, breathes out, “Elena --”

And then Villanelle is grabbing her, slamming her against a nearby tree, and Eve fights against the grip, attempting to shove Villanelle away from her while at the same time searching the trees for any sign Elena is closer than just her voice wafting through the pines.

“What are you --” Eve’s voice is cut off when Villanelle puts her hand over Eve’s mouth.

“Do not speak,” Villanelle warns, voice low. She looks at Eve straight on, pupils almost black. “If you say anything, I will kill them.”

Eve tries to focus on anything except the warmth of Villanelle’s hand on her lips. Or Villanelle’s other hand on her hip, holding her steady. She’s focusing so hard on  _ other _ things, and she recognizes the second voice now, the other person with Elena. Not just a voice, however, as both Eve and Villanelle register the sound of footsteps.

The second person is Hugo.

Eve wants to melt against the tree, to turn instantly to liquid and slip between Villanelle’s arms and run to her friends, both because she is actually glad Hugo is alive and also because she wants to see Elena again, before all of this is over. She needs to.

“Just through there, I think,” Elena says, and Eve feels like she’s floating on water. Like she’s on her back, staring at the sky, and the waves are rocking gently beneath her.

Villanelle will kill Elena and Hugo if she moves, says anything, does anything. Villanelle will kill them and probably her and it will be Eve’s fault regardless, so she stays still and listens as Elena and Hugo get closer and closer, the latter stumbling through the brush and cursing under his breath.

Villanelle leans into her, no doubt attempting to obscure their bodies by the trunk of the tree. Villanelle leans into her, and Eve… Eve panics.

Air twists in her throat, and all she wants to do is suck in another lungful through her teeth. She starts breathing harder through her nose, her heartbeat speeding up. When she attempts to wriggle out of Villanelle’s grasp, a futile attempt as Villanelle is definitely stronger than she, Villanelle whispers, “Stop.” She looks over Eve’s shoulder, searching the trees.

Eve decides to try something different. Distraction. She remembers the kiss in the bathroom, and she…

Well, she presses her hips forward, which results in the exact thing she hoped for. Villanelle’s gaze snaps right back to her. Her eyes are dark. She stares at Eve for a very, very long moment, and Eve pushes her hips forward again, feeling Villanelle press back into her.

Villanelle lifts her hand off Eve’s mouth before she places her thumb on Eve’s lower lip, rubbing the soft, cracked skin there.

In. A deep, deep breath in. Eve lets it fill her lungs.

Then the hand on Eve’s hip slips… down along the outside of Eve’s thigh, the warm heat soaking through the suit fabric and melting against Eve’s skin. Eve can’t control the way her breath hitches, getting caught in her throat, and Villanelle hears it because of course she does, tilting her head to the side with the ghost of a smile playing on her lips. She reads Eve’s expression, waiting, before letting her hand slip around to the front, to the soft, sensitive skin of Eve’s thigh. Her thumb brushes higher, and Eve feels unsteady on her own two legs.

Eve’s mind is foggy, only the blurry outline of Villanelle before her, the pressure of Villanelle against her, and the voices fading in the distance. Villanelle, on her part, doesn’t even seem to hear the voices anymore, just focusing intently on Eve.

Villanelle’s hand finally, finally migrates higher, fingers brushing against Eve’s center, sending sparks through Eve.

And then Villanelle is kissing her, soft lips only a slight pressure against Eve’s before she pushes harder, moving her mouth faster, prying Eve’s lips apart with her tongue. Eve kisses her back.

Eve kisses her back long enough to wrap her hand around the dagger on Villanelle’s back.

It happens like this: Villanelle kisses Eve, her lips slipping from Eve’s lips and finding the corner of her mouth, then her jaw, and Eve lets out a long, exasperated breath, and then the hand between Eve’s legs presses harder against her, before the hand is replaced by Villanelle’s thigh, grinding against her. Eve hasn’t felt want like this in a long, long time, but the thought immediately tumbles into thoughts of Niko, who is watching --

Villanelle will kill her.

Villanelle leans back, smiling at Eve, and just as she leans in to kiss Eve again, Eve reminds herself that Villanelle will kill her.

The dagger finds a place between them, Eve holding the point of it right at Villanelle’s stomach. The smile on Villanelle’s face falters, and she glances down. She’s all false bravado now, when she says, “You can’t.”

It’s the icing on the cake. Because Eve  _ can _ .

So she does.

The cry Villanelle lets out is almost unearthly, and only when Villanelle shudders against Eve, then slips down to the ground, face growing paler by the second, does a wave of regret wash over Eve so distinctly she wants to vomit. She drops to her knees, pressing her hands into the wound.

Villanelle shakes her head rapidly, rage in the lines of her face, and says, “Don’t fucking pull it.” Her breath comes in shallow gasps, and Eve nods, pressing her hands into the wound.

She barely notices when Elena and Hugo run onto the scene, standing a few feet away, until Hugo says, “Well, shit, Eve.”

Eve looks up, feeling Villanelle’s body compulsing on the ground, and connects gazes with Elena. She remembers Elena’s games, now, remembers meeting Elena and then going home and watching Elena’s games because Eve has this thing, where she doesn’t like to befriend other victors who have just killed to kill. She knows Elena killed to survive, just as she did, and she looks at Elena now, tears in her eyes.

“Help me,” Eve whispers. There’s a soft pressure on her wrist, and she looks back down at Villanelle, who grasps at her weakly, eyes fluttering and glassy.

Villanelle’s hand slips from her wrist, and Eve wonders, for the first time, what she’s really done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was really not supposed to go like this. things changed as i wrote it, but we're in the home stretch folks!
> 
> also sorry for taking so long between updates. i'm writing this chapter by chapter now mostly because things keep CHANGING... i had an ending when i started this fic that 100% doesn't work now. 
> 
> the GOAL is... to finish this before school starts next monday. here's fucking hoping.
> 
> also villanelle is me saying "i don't get sick"


	12. like a devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This must be what dying feels like.

When Oksana turns five years old, her father takes her hunting. 

He leads her through the winding streets of District 12, and her wide eyes take in the poverty and soot stained people at the edges of the dirt. Her father quietly explains to her that far, far away, there is a land where the people are not starving, not struggling to live, and not worrying every breath may be their last. Stopping, he crouches down so he’s closer to her height, places his hands on her shoulders, and says, “Someday, we’ll go there. I promise.”

He puts a heavy hand on her shoulder, standing up, before he reaches for her head, ruffling her short, brown crop of hair, already too frizzy for her own good.

A rifle bounces on her father’s back as he tells her about the electric fences that are never turned on, and a knife bounces on Oksana’s hip as he tells her she should never, never go outside the district without him.

He pauses, looking at her. “Okay?”

She nods quickly. She never wants him to think she isn’t listening.

While her father tugs one of the strong wires of the fence out of the way, Oksana stands guard, watching the edge of the falling down buildings for wandering Peacekeepers. “ _Come now_ ,” he says in Russian, her harsh mother tongue almost music to her ears.

She scampers through the hole in the fence, and her father follows after her. They run into the trees; this is Oksana’s favorite party, when she and her father run as fast as they can through the field, hoping to disappear into the trees before they are seen.

When they finally tumble to a stop just inside the treeline, Oksana is breathing hard, but smiling. Her father puts a hand on her shoulder, squeezes it, and leads her deeper into the trees.

He teaches her how to walk softly, how to spot tracks in the dirt, and how to listen to the forest like it’s an old friend telling you a very thrilling story. She listens and hangs onto every word, following in his literal footsteps, her smaller feet fitting nicely into his boot tracks.

When her father spots a deer at the edge of a small meadow before them, he gestures for Oksana to get down. He kneels beside her, almost as tall as she is standing. In a quiet whisper, he explains step by step how to make sure the rifle is loaded, how to balance it so it sits on her shoulder, but doesn’t dig into it. He talks her through finding the deer in the scope and aiming just right. “Aim for the body,” he tells her, before handing the gun over. It’s almost as big as she is.

“For me?” she asks, not quite knowing if she wants to take it.

He nods. He helps her hold onto it, and she ultimately ends up resting the rifle on her knee in order to keep it steady. She can’t hold onto it comfortably, but her father helps like he always does. He smiles at her, tells her it’s okay.

She finds the deer in the scope.

“Let our your breath when you pull the trigger,” her father tells her.

And Oksana does.

 

.

 

When Oksana turns six, the Peacekeepers decide to raid all the homes in District 12. When they find her father’s rifle, even when he insists he owns it legally, they drag him into the street and beat him until he bleeds. Oksana watches them tie him to a wooden post in the town square. She watches them whip him until he passes out. She stays at the edge of the courtyard, unmoving, until the old woman who lives next door brings her some bread.

She takes the bread. She does not eat it.

She never takes her eyes off her father, barring the small moments when she falls asleep against her will. When the Peacekeepers come and whip him, as they do every hour during the day for three days, she does not look away. She memorizes the face of the Head Peacekeeper and makes it her business to know exactly where he is at every moment.

When they let her father go, finally, he dies on the table of the local healer a day later.

No one pays attention to the little orphan girl who disappears in the night without a trace. She hitches a ride on the train the Head Peacekeeper takes, and is surprised to see the terrains twist and change around her, as she curls into a small ball between the train cars. Her stomach aches, her body screams every time she tries to move, but she doesn’t dare get off the train until she knows her Head Peacekeeper is doing the same.

The train stops in District 1.

She follows the Peacekeeper to his home. She sees his wife and his three children, who welcome him back with wide, open arms. Oksana navigates through the streets and steals clothing, steals a dagger from a local metalworking shop, and waits until night falls.

Getting into the house is easy. She slips through a flap in the door made for an animal, and she hopes it is not a dog when she falls onto the kitchen floor inside the door. A few feet away from her, a cat blinks lazily. Oksana lets out a breath.

Her father taught her how to kill and gut most of the animals found in the forest. Deer, squirrels, hogs, and rabbits. Sometimes larger birds, but they weren’t worth the trouble. Her father taught her how to kill animals, and after that first day of hunting, her father began teaching her how to fight and survive. They sparred almost daily, when her father wasn’t too tired after his shift in the mines.

It was all fun and games for her, just spending more time with her father.

Oksana thinks back to the techniques her father whispered to her in their small home as she creeps up the stairs.

She starts with the children. Two of them, older than her, share a room. The first one doesn’t have time to scream before she slits his throat. He watches him wilt like a plant dying, the life not so much slipping out of him, but escaping as he deflates. Something buzzes deep inside of her, and Oksana rushes to the other child in the room just as quickly, not even hesitating to slide the blade across soft, soft skin.

The third is even easier. Oksana walks with a bounce in her step to a second bedroom and finds a teenager there. The house is bigger than anything she’s ever even step foot in, but she memorizes it as she walks the hallways, blood on her hands, on her shirt, and dripping from her dagger.

She puts the blade through the wife’s eye, smiling a bit when the woman twitches beneath her before falling still.

Oksana crawls off the woman and gazes at the Peacekeeper, a haze of murder at the edge of her vision. He has dark hair like her father did, a well-kept beard marking his ability to shave regularly. Her father’s own facial hair had been scraggly and rough, but she liked sitting in his lap, head on his chest, and hand stroking the hair on his face.

Moving to stand on the other edge of the bed, Oksana pokes the man in the shoulder.

He opens his eyes, and then starts, scrambling to sit up in bed. He reaches for the nightstand, undoubtedly for a gun, and Oksana uses all her might to slam the knife into his hand, pinning it to the wood.

He screams. “What the _fuck_?”

Oksana says nothing.

Shaking, he cries, “Who are you?” He reflexively attempts to pull his hand back, but can’t without searing pain.

“D’yavol,” she responds, not even bothering to explain to him what it means. In English, she says, “You killed my father.”

There is no recognition in the man’s eyes. He glances over at his dead wife, whimpers, and Oksana can only think about the small little rabbits in the forest. They are her favorite things to hunt, always so fast yet so oblivious. 

She takes a step forward, and the man immediately starts begging, “Please, please. I’ll do anything. Please don’t hurt my -- my children.”

Rolling her eyes, Oksana says, “They are already dead.”

Something flashes in the man’s gaze, then, and he pulls at his hand, spitting at her. “I’ll kill you,” he promises, like a caged wolf finally being approached by its maker. “I’ll --”

In a flash, Oksana pulls the knife out of the sidetable and the man’s hand, and before he can react to anything but the pain, she slams the knife into his barrel-shaped chest. It goes through his ribs and into his heart just like she knew it would. The man curls forward, hands around the hilt of the knife, while Oksana takes a very large step back. He convulses, blood already leaking out of his mouth, and Oksana watches him die.

She sits on the floor of his house and waits for them to find her.

She does not say anything when the other Peacekeepers break down the door, and she does not say anything when they find her there, covered in blood.

They send her to the orphanage because they do not know what else to do with her. They put her through tests and she hides her real answers like her father taught her to do. She acts like a normal child for two years until a very large man shoulders through the orphanage and comes up to her.

“Hello,” he says softly, not kneeling down. She likes when adults do not belittle her. She is eight now, almost nine. “I am Konstantin. I have heard that you…” He pauses, almost like he doesn’t really know what he wants to say. “I have heard you like to fight.”

She supposes you could call it that. After a beat, she shrugs. 

“What is your name?” he prompts, frowning a little.

“Oksana,” she responds easily. Finally, remembering some semblance of manners, she sticks out her hand. Konstantin shakes it.

“It’s nice to meet you, Oksana,” he tells her.

When they tell her this man is adopting her, Oksana doesn’t feel any type of relief. She doesn’t think about how she might escape him, like she’s thought of escaping this orphanage so many times. No. Instead, she thinks about how much it feels like she’s walking next to her father when they walk through the orphanage doors.

She thinks about how much she wants to reach for Konstantin’s hand and hold it.

 

.

 

“Oh, oh _Jesus_ ,” Eve mutters, on her knees with her hands pressed into Villanelle’s abdomen, fingers wrapped around the knife. Elena and Hugo stand a few feet away, not moving.

Without thinking, Eve takes off her thin shirt and balls up the fabric. She presses it against the wound right next to the knife before she grabs the handle and…

One breath. Two breaths.

Eve pulls the knife out.

Villanelle, on the edge of consciousness, lets out a scream that makes Hugo take a step back. Eve presses the fabric into the wound, hard enough to make Villanelle’s eyes flutter and roll back into her head. “I’m going to…” Villanelle murmurs, fading fast, “I’m going to _fucking_ kill you.”

“Okay,” Eve says, pretending not to notice the wetness on her cheeks. 

Before she can issue more threats, Villanelle passes out. Eve stares at her face, watching for signs of breathing, signs of _life_ , and doesn’t notice when Elena comes over next to her and puts a hand on her shoulder. 

“Eve,” Elena says softly. “We should… We should leave her here.”

“I can’t let her die,” Eve argues. “She’s a pain in the ass, but she’s --”

“She’s more than a pain in the arse,” Hugo mutters bitterly. “She’s a _murderer_ , Eve.”

“I know!” Eve practically yells. Her body begins to shake. “I can’t do this, Elena. I can’t just… We heard you and Hugo,” she explains softly, still not wavering as she presses her hands into Villanelle’s wound. “We heard you and she pressed me against the tree to keep me quiet. I wanted to see you again.” Finally, Eve looks up from the ground, finding Elena’s wide, concerned gaze. “I didn’t want to die before…”

Eve sniffs, catching a sob before it erupts in her chest. 

“I can’t be the reason she dies,” Eve whispers. “I can’t deal with that again, if I get out of this.”

Elena watches her. Eve hopes Elena can connect the dots. Would Elena remember that Eve avoids watching the Hunger Games more than any of the other victors? Would Kenny have told her Eve still dreams about that night, more than twenty years ago?

Because the only reason she wants Villanelle to live is because she cannot be the cause of this… this wreckage. 

It’s Villanelle’s body on the ground before her, Eve knows, but all she can see is the young, too scrawny face of Dominic from that Games so many years ago. She presses even harder into the wound, knowing she can stop too much blood from escaping Villanelle’s body if they can manage to… to --

Elena puts her hands over Eve’s.

“Okay,” Elena murmurs. “Let’s get her out of sight.”

Elena takes Villanelle’s arms while Hugo scouts ahead, and Eve holds one hand to Villanelle’s stomach with her other arm tucked underneath her legs. It’s a terribly awkward set-up, but it does the trick, and they slowly make their way several hundred feet to a small, cramped cave Hugo found.

“Christ, she’s heavy,” Elena grumbles, attempting to keep Villanelle from slipping.

They put Villanelle on the ground just as the sun goes down, and Eve says quickly, “We have to start a fire.”

“A fire?” Hugo blanches, looking around. “The smoke’ll give us away for sure.”

“Quickly,” Eve corrects. “Before it’s too dark. I need to --” she stops, thinking it through. “I’m going to cauterize the wound and stop more blood from coming out. If it gets infected, there’s nothing we can do, but… We can stop the blood.”

Eyeing her, Hugo says, “You know how to do that?”

“Kind of,” Eve responds.

He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but instead starts building a small mound of twigs and brush. He sparks it with a flintstone and it quickly catches. Glancing toward where Elena stands guard a few feet away, he mutters, “Wish you knew how to cauterize a wound when my shoulder was split open.”

Before Eve can respond, he walks off toward Elena.

“Fuck,” Eve sighs, watching him walk off.

She didn’t want to have to explain to Hugo she truly didn’t imagine getting caught up with someone else, especially someone injured, so early in the Games. She had thought he was going to die, and she didn’t want to be around to watch it happen. Even in her head, Eve admits the excuse sounds flimsy at best. 

Shaking her head, Eve turns back to her blood soaked shirt on Villanelle’s stomach. Carefully, she pulls it away from the wound. Blood oozes at the small opening in her abdomen, but the shirt managed to soak up most of it. Putting it to the side, Eve notices she’s probably not going to be wearing that shirt again.

Eve places the knife in the fire, letting it heat up, and then pulls Villanelle’s bag to her, digging through it.

She smiles when she finds the dart. Using the hot knife, she pries off the top end of the dart, hoping it’s small enough.

She puts her palm flat on Villanelle’s abdomen, before pushing the two edges of skin around the wound closer together. She presses the dart tip into the skin, weaving the wound together with a small hook, and frequently checks Villanelle’s face to see if the unconscious woman wakes up. Villanelle doesn’t.

But she does when Eve presses the hot edge of the knife to the wound.

Both Elena and Hugo start when Villanelle lets out a guttural scream, attempting to sit up and rid herself of the pain. Eve practically throws herself onto Villanelle’s shoulder to push her back to the ground, but then there’s the sick smell of burning flesh and Villanelle’s eyes are fluttering again as she slips back to unconsciousness.

And in the middle of her stomach is a red, welting line where there used to be a hole.

Eve scoots away from the body and leans back, letting out a long, relieved breath.

As Villanelle murmurs something under her breath, Elena returns, sitting right next to Eve before pulling her knees to her chest. “So,” Elena says quietly, as Eve puts the fire out and the sky darkens around them. 

Eve doesn’t know if she likes the way Elena shifts next to her, or the way Elena’s gaze skirts toward her before bouncing away, like she doesn’t want to get caught looking. Like Eve is someone else entirely, and not her friend. Instead of focusing on Elena _not_ looking at her, Eve refocuses on Villanelle, who doesn’t look good, but doesn’t look dead. 

She’s done the math in her head. There are five people left, if she’s calculated correctly, and the nightly announcements will confirm that for her. There are five people left, and four of them are here, right now, huddled in this small cave. The last one out there is Raymond, waiting for them somewhere. Probably on the other side of the Arena. The announcement for a Feast has to be soon.

“What’s really going on, Eve?” Elena asks, her voice quiet. 

Coming to sit down next to them, Hugo lets out a small sigh, resting his aching body. Eve can’t imagine how hard this has been for him.

“I…” Eve looks at Villanelle. “She’s helped me.”

“You do realize she does that, though, right?” Hugo picks up a small stick and starts digging it into the ground, casting a wary glance at Villanelle, almost as if she’ll wake up and take vengeance for any dark words said against her. “Before she gets you.”

“She’s not some kind of supervillain --” Elena and Hugo both give Eve a look “-- It’s different,” Eve explains. “Stabbing her felt right the moment before I did it, but there was this -- this hurt in her eyes as soon as the knife went in.” Shrugging, Eve struggles to put it into words. “She didn’t think I could actually do it. And I think part of me needed to know that I could, just to realize that I shouldn’t.” She paused, looking from Elena to Hugo and back to Elena. “Does that make sense?”

Immediately, Hugo says, “No.”

But Elena nods, just a bit, looking entirely displeased. “It just makes everything harder.”

“What’s hard is having the three of us this close to the end,” Hugo groans, leaning back onto his elbows. “How are we supposed to eliminate each other?”

“They’ll probably just send mutts at us or something,” Elena says, looking at the sky.

Eve knows who Elena is thinking about. She watches as Elena’s shoulder’s lose their edge, not as she relaxes them, but as her muscles comes to the conclusion that keeping her body as tense as it is no longer suffices as a good use of energy. Eve watches Elena and hurts for her.

But they’re here.

Just as Eve opens her mouth to say something, the sky beams brightly. Cesar Flickerman’s made up face appears, and he announces the few people who died today and clarifies to Eve (and everyone) that there are only five people left. He wraps up his speech, congratulating them on making it this far, and Eve waits for the sky to go dark. Except it doesn’t. Cesar bites his lip before he bursts.

“And,” he gushes, excited, “There’s a feast! OhmyGod, I couldn’t hold it in longer. Everyone in the Arena needs something --”

“I don’t need shit,” Hugo interjects.

“-- and so the Cornucopia will be replenished with food, water, whatever you _need_ to win this. So hurry to claim what’s yours! Good luck!!”

The sky finally goes dark, like a monitor screen fading out into a tiny bit of light smack dab in the middle of it, and Eve blinks. The sky returns to imitating true life, a portrait of stars above her. If she focuses, she can even make out computer-generated constellations. 

She knows in the Cornucopia there is something to keep Villanelle alive. That is what Villanelle needs right now, and what else could appear in the Cornucopia except that? Eve could get it for her (mostly because there’s no way in Hell Villanelle is getting up, walking to the Cornucopia, and fighting for whatever life-saving elixir is waiting for her there), but such an act would truly prove Eve _cares_.

There’s a difference between preventing someone’s death and actively keeping them alive. She’s done what she can now. Let nature take its course.

“Eve?” Elena’s voice drags her back into the present, and her eyes follow Elena’s finger, pointing at the air above them.

Floating down to their little camp is a parachute, beeping quietly to stay on target. It lands next to their doused fire, and none of them move to touch it.

“What d’you think it could be,” Hugo says first, breaking the silence.

“Uh --” Eve reaches for the small box, then pulls her hand back. “Should we…?”

“For Chrissake,” Elena mutters, grabbing the box. She pulls the canister open, grabs a note and begins reading aloud, “To Villanelle. Do not lose yourself. From ‘K’.”

“That’s her mentor,” Eve comments, and Elena and Hugo both look at her. “Konstantin.” Thinking, Eve realizes something. “That can’t be antibiotics or anything. Not when they have the Feast.”

Turning over a small vial, Elena nods. “Yeah, they wouldn’t let him, no matter how much money he has.”

“Could it be poison?” Hugo wonders. “For us, or maybe if she needs to kill herself before things get too badly.”

Eve shakes her head. “They don’t do poison where she’s from. If she’s going to die, she’ll die with a fight.”

“I could kill her right now,” Hugo points out. “She’s not fighting me.”

“I would,” a voice croaks, and Hugo almost jumps out of his skin. There is an intense relief that floods through Eve’s body when she realizes Villanelle is awake. Villanelle doesn’t move, but merely opens her eyes. 

“Warn a person,” Hugo mutters, before he stands up and walks a few feet away in order to put some distance between himself and Villanelle.

Villanelle smiles a hazy, pained smile. “Konstantin would have sent me pain medication.” She turns her head, gaze zeroing in on the vial in Elena’s hand. “For me?”

Eve watches the indecision flash across Elena’s face. She knows what her friend is thinking now, weighing the pros and cons of giving the vial to Villanelle. If they give her the vial, there’s a good chance whatever it is could allow Villanelle the precious chance to kill them.

“If it’s morphling,” Eve says, “She’ll just be high out of her mind. She won’t be able to hurt us.”

Elena nods, and gives the vial to Eve, but not Villanelle. “Hugo and I are going to go look for some food.”

“You know there isn’t going to be any,” Hugo complains. “That’s why there’s going to be a Feast.”

“Water, then,” Elena says. “I just… Need to get away from here.”

Eve watches the two of them go, and she waits until they disappear into the trees before she begins unscrewing the cap of the vial. She looks at the liquid in it again, deciding it really does look like morphling. If Raymond somehow found them, would her, Elena, and Hugo be enough? Would they even be able to survive with Villanelle incapacitated?

“It will make me loopy,” Villanelle says, almost reading her mind. “But not incapable.” She reaches out a hand for the vial, wincing at the small movement.

Eve…

Eve puts the vial in Villanelle’s hand, ignoring the way Villanelle’s fingers graze her own. She’s not going to think about the events leading up to the stabbing at all, she decides, as Villanelle attempts to crane her neck up to down the medicine. Her head bobs back to the ground in relief, her eyes fluttering closed.

Eve watches as whatever it is washes through Villanelle, providing almost instant relief.

“I’m going to sleep now,” Villanelle murmurs, and Eve nods before realizing Villanelle cannot see her.

Eve tries to stay awake, but she drifts off with the memory of Villanelle’s body pressed against her.

 

.

  


When she wakes up again, she realizes she’s shifted closer to Villanelle. Either that, or Villanelle is… on fire.

Eve opens her eyes, immediately met with Villanelle’s soft, hazy look. “Hello,” Villanelle murmurs. “I am hot.”

Instinctively, Eve reaches the few inches to Villanelle’s clammy forehead, almost hot to the touch. “Yeah. You definitely have a fever.”

Villanelle rolls onto her back. “This must be what dying feels like.”

Propping herself up on her elbow, Eve doesn’t quite know what to say. She looks at Villanelle, really looks at her, and for the first time since the kiss, allows herself to relax, to think of Villanelle as just someone else and not… who she really is. “I don’t think you’re going to die,” Eve lies. She doesn’t know, not really, but she also doesn’t know what she’s hoping for.

“I have killed a lot of people,” Villanelle says frankly, her head swiftly turning as she looks at Eve. She holds Eve’s gaze for a moment before turning her head back toward the roof of the small cave. 

Eve can’t help herself. “Are you upset with me?”

Villanelle makes a small sound. Neither an affirmation or disagreement. “I don’t know,” Villanelle says finally. “I do not think I wanted to win this. I wanted to be… remembered, I guess.”

“I can’t imagine how anyone could forget you,” Eve admits. She thinks about the people in the Capitol mourning Villanelle already.

“You know the…” Villanelle searches for the words. “What they make us do. The victors.”

Eve realizes she’s being vague because of the cameras. She nods, but realizes Villanelle can hardly see her in the darkness. “Yeah.”

“They did not offer that to me,” Villanelle says. “I had heard about it. My… Someone told me about it happening once victors came of age, sometimes before.” Eve hopes the Capitol isn’t broadcasting this conversation, turning the cameras onto a better, more interesting end of the Arena. Quietly, Villanelle asks, “Did you…?”

“Yes,” Eve says.

“Mm,” Villanelle sighs. “They take what they want from whoever they want.” She moves her hand to her abdomen. She pokes at the ruined flesh there. “Did you burn me?”

“Had to,” Eve says archly. “You were bleeding out.”

“You saved me?”

Eve debates this. She could lie, but she’d already told Villanelle that it had been her. “I guess so.”

Letting out a small chuckle, Villanelle says, “You _like_ me,” she teases, her voice melodic.

Quickly, Eve says, “I don’t. You’re a murderer.”

“A murderer? Eve, _you_ stabbed me.”

“Well, you --” Eve stops abruptly, because she’d been about to say _kissed me_. That wasn’t the reason she stabbed Villanelle. What had been the reason?

Kill or be killed.

“You were going to kill me,” Eve says eventually, but even now, the words feel like a lie.

“Maybe,” Villanelle says in slight agreement. “Maybe not. How could you tell with your tongue in my mouth?” Eve can hear Villanelle’s smile in the darkness and it infuriates her. How could someone so close to death be so annoying?

Eve chooses to ignore Villanelle. She doesn’t seem to mind, not pressing any harder on Eve than she has to. It still stings, they both know it does, because before Eve stabbed Villanelle, there had been a kiss, but there had also been so much more. Villanelle’s hand between Eve’s legs, for one, but also a fire burnin between the two of them so bright it flared, still burned in Eve’s gut.

Finally, Eve says, “How many people have you killed?”

“I do not know the number,” Villanelle answers quickly.

“Ballpark, then,” Eve presses.

Villanelle makes a sound, pondering. “You will not like it.”

“Yeah, somehow I don’t think it’s going to ruin my perception of you.” Eve doesn’t know what kind of answer would be more damning than what she already knows. She already knows how many people Villanelle has murdered, basically, so hearing the actual number isn’t going to --

“Hundreds,” Villanelle says, no ounce of regret in her tone.

Eve sits up, getting off the ground. “Hundreds?”

Villanelle doesn’t move, only twists her head to look at Eve. Just the small amount of movement pricks pain at her, and she says, “Is there more morphling?” 

“Not until you tell me how you…”

“I am not a serial killer,” Villanelle drawls, gritting her teeth in pain. There is annoyance in her eyes, too. “Come here, Eve.”

“What?”

“I need to _whisper_ it to you,” Villanelle says quickly, gesturing with her hand. “Because you will not give me those meds if I do not tell you.”

What Eve is expecting to hear when she leans down to Villanelle is not some story about an organization that hired Villanelle to kill prominent figures in the Capitol government, but that is what Villanelle tells her. Eve leans back, eyes wide, and wordlessly hands over the pills to Villanelle, who takes them gladly. She sighs, leaning back on the ground, as the morphling washes over her.

Before Eve can respond, Elena and Hugo return. Hugo notices Villanelle’s consciousness and remarks, “Oh, great. The lunatic’s still awake.”

“I am not crazy,” Villanelle murmurs, her eyes closed. Eve wonders how she can have her guard down, even like this, and supposes that Villanelle has reconciled dying. Either that, or she doesn’t think Hugo and Elena are threats in the slightest. “Goodnight.”

True to her word, Villanelle slowly falls back asleep.

“So,” Elena says, sitting down again. From their empty hands, Eve surmises they didn’t find anything. “How are we going to beat Raymond?”

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things feel relatively close to the end, but they... are Not. 
> 
> huge thanks to Fixy who is writing Every Rose -- I highly recommend that fic. tis where the inspiration for "d'yavol" came from :)
> 
> more thanks to the people keeping up with this story!!! you are greatly appreciated and i am working hard to please :)
> 
> (also, probably don't need to clarify this, but the first two scenes are villanelle's pain-addled head reminding her of her past, so hopefully they aren't as jarring)


	13. see you soon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It can't be Raymond who wins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay folks. 
> 
> tw - graphic descriptions of violence. 
> 
> PLEASE. this is a wild chapter. hang in there. keep the faith.

Get up.

Survival instinct.

Get. Up.

Villanelle opens her eyes, finding that she is no longer in the small cave she’d been in the night before, but out in the open, laying on the forest floor. The ground soaks all of her heat, and immediately, her jaw starts to quiver, the cold overtaking her.

Get up.

The voice in the back of her head is a mix of everyone she’s ever known -- her father, Konstantin, Anna. The voice urges her to get up, get out of this vulnerable position, but she… she hurts. She attempts to twist into a sitting position, but the pain sears through her, starting bluntly, sharply at her abdomen. Fucking Eve. 

Where is Eve? Still on the ground, Villanelle looks around and spots the small cave just a few feet away. She must’ve rolled out at some point during the night. Villanelle sighs, taking in the abandoned fire and empty supply bags. She attempts to sit up again, this time managing to prop herself up by her elbows. She’s still wearing only the lower half of the body suit and a sports bra, the latter doing nothing to conceal her from the cold. 

She takes a good look at the wound on her stomach, not bleeding at all (thanks to Eve’s in-the-moment cauterization), but still very much hurting. Villanelle pokes at the skin around the healing wound, wincing. Did Eve take the medication with her? She could down more of the morphling, pass out, and wait for all of this to be over.

Eve must have left her here. That’s the only explanation. Eve’s friends convinced her that the right thing to do would be to let Villanelle die, so the three of them packed up their things and left. Perhaps they thought they stood a chance against Raymond if they grouped up. They wouldn’t. Villanelle hardly stood a chance against the man, especially like this. She flops back onto the ground, her vision swirling with pain.

Get up. Get up, get up, get up.

Gritting her teeth, Villanelle rolls onto her stomach. She puts her hands flat on the ground, finally manages to lift herself enough to get her knees underneath her. She closes her eyes tightly, the pain washing over her. Pain is fine. Pain is good. Pain means you’re _alive_ , Oksana. She opens her eyes, looks at the small twigs and faded pine needles on the ground. Villanelle stands up fully, stumbles when the pain washes to her head, but she finally, finally stands steadily.

“Nice,” she says aloud, to no one but herself (and the voices in her head).

She hopes that Raymond has killed the other three already. Would the sounds of cannons wake her up? She takes one staggering step, the pain already getting more and more familiar and less… intense.

She walks through the forest in the direction she thinks the Cornucopia is. It’s hard to tell, especially when the sun could be following some fake trajectory to throw her off. The only reassurance Villanelle has is perhaps the fact that at this late stage in the Games, they would want to push the remaining tributes together.

She can’t do the math in her head, having been out for so long. There are less than seven people left, and they are minus one of Eve’s little group -- either Eve, Elena, or Hugo are dead now, and Villanelle really hopes it is the last one.

She walks until the pain stops being pain, but an annoying child that follows at her feet. Like the children in the Capitol who recognize her and follow her around, telling her how she’s their favorite tribute and asking her for autographs. She wonders how many of them cry when they hear about the Peacekeepers who are murdered in their beds (by Villanelle), or about other, high ranking officials in the Districts who are disappearing one by one.

Before she started her stay in District 1, Villanelle was friends with a small, homeless boy who lived either in the alley behind her house or the small, dilapidated houses near the coal mines. He would follow her around, could feel her unspoken power before even she could. When her father had been dragged to the square, she had used the boy for intelligence, asking him to report to her where the Peacekeepers went when they slept. He had come back with a date -- the day the Peacekeepers were traveling back home for a week or so.

He had been the reason Villanelle was able to get her revenge.

So, pain becomes her friend, just as that little boy did. She wonders what happened to him, as she leans heavily against a pine tree. She can’t be far now. She’s been walking for hours, or what feels like hours. The Cornucopia has to be… right up there.

She takes one step, then another, and pain, her good friend, betrays her. Her vision goes blurry and her grasp on reality swims, the ground tilting beneath her feet. Villanelle collapses, her body falling into a heap of limbs, and she blinks, her ears ringing. She struggles on the ground, writhing a bit, but being horizontal settles her vision, so she breathes evenly until the dizziness fades away and the world stops spinning.

A cannon booms, shaking her to further alertness.

A tight grip encases the inside of her chest, and she recognizes the feeling as panic. Panic, that somehow that cannon belongs to Eve’s life, signaling the end of perhaps the most interesting thing to happen to Villanelle in a long, long time. Nevermind that her interest in Eve started because of the similarities between Eve and Anna. Nevermind that this had somehow become a game that both of them were willing to play.

Eve is somewhere. And she needs help.

That thought alone is enough to propel Villanelle to her feet. At least, she thinks idly, when they left her to die in the forest they didn’t take her weapons. They took all but the dagger, with which Villanelle could more than make do.

Villanelle breaks the treeline, and when she spots figures outside the Cornucopia, she starts to run. 

 

.

 

Eve doesn’t want to leave Villanelle. Villanelle will probably just die, out here on her own, and in case they’ve counted the remaining tributes wrong, someone could find her and just off her so, so easily. Eve doesn’t want that. She doesn’t know _why_ , but she supposes there’s something too fucked up about one of the most talented tributes in Hunger Games history dying from an infected wound or someone killing her while she’s sleeping.

In her head, Eve doesn’t acknowledge _why_ Villanelle is one of the most talented tributes. It doesn’t do her good to think about Villanelle’s body count inside the Arena, let alone out of it.

Hundreds. Villanelle had said she’d killed hundreds of people.

Elena comes to stand beside Eve, pressing a warm, reassuring hand on her shoulder. “Come on. It’s not like we’re killing her personally. She might die, or she might outlive all of us. We’ll kill Raymond, he’ll kill us, and here she’ll be, a winner again.”

“You know I don’t want that,” Eve argues, but it’s weak.

“I know. But I also know you probably have no idea what you want right now.” The hand on Eve’s shoulder squeezes, and Eve relaxes into the touch. “You can stay here with her and watch her die, or you can come with us and get some antibiotics.”

“She could die while we’re gone.”

“She could die at any moment,” Hugo interjects, and Eve glances at him. He shrugs into his backpack, avoiding his injured arm. “We all could. That’s just life.”

“Yeah, well,” Elena says, a bit annoyed at him, “I guess it is.” She turns to Eve again. “We’re being killed for entertainment. The least you could do is make it hard for them.”

That might be what does it for Eve. She nods, slowly standing, and takes one last, long look at Villanelle. It’s not like she had been imagining some kind of future with Villanelle, or even imagining them both somehow getting out. Laying on the ground, Villanelle looks no older than her twenty-six years. She looks young, too young for all of this. Her life has been stolen.

Eve realizes that her own years have been stolen, too. Not just her own, but Elena’s, Hugo’s, Jess. Everyone. Even Bill. God, Bill. Eve hopes he hasn’t been watching too closely, but she somehow knows he has. 

The most Eve could do now, at this point, is get one of the good ones out. Get herself, Elena, or Hugo _out_ and maybe they can change something. Maybe they can --

“Okay,” Eve breathes, nodding. “Let’s go.”

She doesn’t look back at Villanelle when they start walking, choosing instead to remember how serene Villanelle looks laying on the ground, passed out. She doesn’t look back because she’s not sure she’d be able to continue if she did, so instead, she follows Elena’s lead while Hugo takes the back of their trio, and they begin to make their way to the Cornucopia.

The walk is surprisingly short. They are a lot closer than they think. After about an hour, they reach the edge of the trees and all three of them surveil the clearing for any signs of Raymond.

“Anything?” Elena whispers, hovering next to Eve.

Eve shakes her head. “It looks like no one’s been here.”

“Maybe he’s pinned under a rock somewhere,” Hugo suggests, taking the initiative to step into the clearing. Eve and Elena don’t follow him, but he continues, “That’d just be our luck, wouldn’t it?”

“The Capitol sure wouldn’t get their money’s worth,” Elena says.

Despite everything in Eve screaming at her to stay put, when Elena gets up to follow Hugo, she follows too. She has a hand on the hatchet she took from Villanelle, poised and ready to… To maybe hurt someone with it. She doesn’t know if she actually will be able to. The thought reminds her of the pure panic in Villanelle’s eyes when she stabbed her, and she tightens her jaw.

“I’m going to be sick,” she groans, before doubling over and choking out some vomit. Elena comes to her side, rubbing small circles on her back.

“Come on,” Elena urges. “Let’s get in and get out.”

Hugo is already ten feet from the Cornucopia, getting excited as they get closer to food and water and supplies. He reaches a pack of food first, tearing into it with his teeth. He sucks down the paste, making what sounds like almost a moan. “I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy for blended food.”

Eve and Elena reach the supplies, too, and start eating some. Elena attempts to direct traffic, saying, “Okay, grab what you need and then we’ll get on the way. We can eat back at the camp.”

Eve hadn’t thought they were going to manage to get back, and now, as she spots a box of what have to be antibiotics, she starts to get excited. What was a shitty survival situation suddenly feels a lot like winning, despite the iciness on the back of her neck.

“I’ll keep watch,” Hugo suggests, and he disappears around the corner of the Cornucopia, making a round.

“I’ll grab the food,” Eve says, stuffing as many of the packets into her backpack as she can.

Hugo is right, she thinks, as she surveys the packets of food paste. She wants to eat more, drink all the canisters of water, but she knows they need to spend as little time as possible here. She fills one bag with the food packets and grabs another, smiling when she notices new knives and rope in this bag. She puts one knife on her belt, then resumes gathering food. She glances at Elena, who is grabbing all the water canisters she can.

“Eve?” Elena asks, suddenly sitting up. “Where’s Hugo?”

How much time had passed since he went on guard? Eve looks around, but the opening of the Cornucopia only allows her so much of a view. The iciness increases tenfold and Eve breathing grows shallow. The forest is silent, and they hear nothing of Hugo walking around.

Elena is up first, and Eve follows her, hefting the bags along. 

She’s two steps too late when she spots Hugo, leaned against the side of the Cornucopia with an axe sticking out of his chest. Eve is two steps too late as she watches Elena crouch next to Hugo, attempting to stop the bleeding, when Raymond comes out of nowhere, grabs Elena by the hair, and slams her into the side of the Cornucopia. Eve hears a sickening crunch, but she doesn’t watch, can’t watch, and when the boom of a cannon goes off, she doesn’t know if it’s for Hugo or Elena.

Raymond turns on Eve, moving quickly and wearing a sick grin, and Eve stumbles backward, too paralyzed to run.

Just as Raymond reaches for her, something blurs at the edge of Eve’s vision -- a flash of blonde hair and Raymond is gone.

It’s Villanelle.

Villanelle, flying at Raymond like something feral, Villanelle, moving with a speed that should be impossible with her injuries, but moving nonetheless. Eve stumbles backward, tripping over her own feet, watching Villanelle climb Raymond like a tree, her fingers going for his eyes.

Raymond throws Villanelle off, and she hits the ground hard, too hard, and she shakes as she pushes herself up again. Raymond doesn’t bother going quickly -- he stands over Villanelle with a sick, twisted grin on his face. “You really like her, huh?”

Villanelle’s eyes fade, and Eve watches in horror as Villanelle collapses on the ground once again.

Crouching down, Raymond places his elbows on his knees. He’s too close to Villanelle, but Villanelle is dying, and Eve knows Raymond can tell. He reaches out a hand and pushes at Villanelle’s shoulder -- the movement is all it takes for Villanelle to flop onto her side, letting out a soft growl of pain. She stares daggers at Raymond, her jaw clenched, and Eve realizes --

Eve realizes Villanelle came for her. To save her.

And Eve left.

So Eve does the only thing she can think to do: she gets up, and she throws herself at Raymond. He’s not expecting it from her, judging by the _oof_ of surprise that escapes his lips. Eve has a knife, and she stabs blindly, cutting his upper arm, but she only has a moment to truly take him by surprise. He rounds on her, lips now pinched in anger, and Eve attempts to stab at him again.

It feels easier, this kind of stabbing, so different than the slow, too slow, push into Villanelle’s abdomen.

But the truth of it is, Eve doesn’t know _how_ to do this. Raymond catches her by the wrist, quickly twists the knife out of her hand, and in seconds, Eve has turned from hunter into prey.

Raymond shoves the knife deep into Eve’s stomach.

And Eve hears Villanelle scream.

Eve's first thought -- her true, first thought before the pain -- is that she need to apologize to Villanelle. Because this  _hurts_. Eve falls to the ground, the sharp, gutting pain shooting through her like electricity, and Villanelle is somehow up on her feet. Eve watches from the ground as Villanelle grabs Raymond, shoves him against the Cornucopia. But like earlier, she’s too weak. Raymond grabs her with one hand, pins her against the metal wall, and then wraps both hands around Villanelle’s throat.

“I’ve waited years for this,” he tells her, and Villanelle grabs weakly at his hands, but can’t bring them down. She chokes on her own breath, her skin goes from flushed to pale in moments.

Eve, on the ground, tries to push herself up. The pain is almost too much, but she manages to get up, just a little bit.

“You _replaced_ me,” Raymond croons, taking his time with Villanelle. “I was the favorite, but then this -- this little _girl_ manages to win.” He shakes his head, and Villanelle’s hands fall to her side. “She wins and she doesn’t even _bathe_ in the spotlight. She wins -- _you_ win, and the only thing you are is ungrateful.”

Villanelle spits at him.

Eve pushes into a sitting position, one hand on the ground, the other on the hilt of the knife deep in her stomach. Pain is just part of her now, and if she’s going to die, well, she’s going to make sure that it isn’t _Raymond_ who wins. Eve attempts to get her feet underneath her, eyeing a glint of silver in the grass a few feet away. It doesn’t matter what kind of weapon it is, as long as it gives Villanelle a chance.

On her knees now. Then, a single foot on the ground. Eve takes shallow, quick breaths. The weapon, she can see it clearly now, is an axe, and Eve worries for a brief second that it might be too big for her to handle like this, but that doesn’t matter. All that matters is she gets one good swing in.

One good swing. To end someone’s life.

It doesn’t matter, Eve tells herself. She’ll be dead in minutes. Just grab the axe, swing it, save Villanelle.

Grab the axe. Swing the axe. Save Villanelle.

Eve attempts to grab the axe, but the pain somehow gets infinitely worse when she bends over. She almost collapses, but bites her lip instead, clamping her free hand around the handle of the axe. She has to let go of the knife to pick up the axe, and as she does, more blood slips down her skin.

“Do it,” Villanelle manages to say, and Eve is propelled further, dragging the axe across the ground.

“She can’t,” Raymond says, tightening his grip. “Can she?”

“Eve,” Villanelle whispers, and that’s all it takes.

Because Eve _can_ do it. And she will.

Eve swings the axe the best she can, aiming for the back of Raymond’s neck. It hits, and so quickly, a million things happen at once: Raymond lets out a deadly scream, drops Villanelle, and Villanelle falls to the ground, gasping for air. The knife in Eve’s stomach twists and Eve falls, too, landing hard on her side. The cannon booms almost immediately, and Eve comes face to face with Raymond’s half-cut neck and his wide, dead eyes when his body hits the ground.

And then Villanelle is there, hovering over her.

“Eve,” she says, holding her hands to Eve’s stomach. She presses, hard, but Eve can feel a blackness around the edges of her vision. “Stop it, Eve,” Villanelle says frantically, looking from Eve’s face to her stomach and back again. “Stop.”

“That’s not… that’s not how dying works.” Eve feels like she’s drowning. Villanelle reaches for her face, and Eve wants her to hold it or do something else tender, but Villanelle wipes the corner of Eve’s mouth with her thumb. It comes away streaked with blood.

“You are not supposed to die,” Villanelle says. 

“You suck,” Eve groans, but more blood is coming up her throat. “Just kill me.”

“No,” Villanelle says, shaking her head. “No.”

Turns out, Villanelle doesn’t have to kill her. Eve slips away all on her own.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is not the end!


	14. love like war

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Existence becomes meaningless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> loose hunger games rules in this chapter. sorry this took so long. thanks for anonymous commenter "yee haw" to inspire me to get over myself with this chapter, as well as twitter user clara @villanellesbae.

Villanelle wakes up.

She wakes up to find a searing pain in her side, and she wonders why the  _ fuck _ the afterlife still hurts. Not that she ever believed in one.

Then, her hazy mind starts connecting the dots, and she realizes this isn’t the afterlife. White walls, white ceiling -- this has to be the Capitol. She’d woken up in the same kind of room after she won the first time, except now, instead of the pure, unadulterated excitement she’d felt then, she feels nothing. Nothing, nothing, nothing. Nothing but emptiness.

Villanelle is alive, and air slips into her lips and tunnels into her lungs before bouncing right back out, and a machine, to her left, beeps in sync with her heart. Villanelle has never felt more artificial, with the monitor attached to her finger, an IV needle tucked deep in her arm. She wishes she were actually a robot, because then… Then maybe this wouldn’t… Hurt.

Hurt. When her father died, it hurt. Now, it hurts again, but in a very, very different way.

She attempts to sit up, but the pain and aliveness (too much of that) pin her to the bed; Eve Polastri left a hole in Villanelle’s stomach. A literal hole, not a metaphorical one, and it  _ burns _ . So much for pain medication. It tears, stings, burns, does all sorts of terrible, painful things, and Villanelle lets out a gasp, eyes fluttering.

She usually handles pain well. Usually.

This is both a physical and metaphorical pain, because sure, there’s a stab wound in her gut, but there is also another, deeper wound, because if Villanelle is alive only one thing can be true.

Eve is dead.

 

.

 

Existence becomes meaningless.

Villanelle, if she’s being honest, has no interest in going back to the old way. After meeting Eve, her life, while shitty, had gotten significantly more  _ interesting _ , and now Villanelle finds she has no motivation to go back to killing people for her employers, not knowing why or how. She wants nothing more than to go to her little home in the Victor’s Villanelle, lock the door, and never, never again emerge, but she’s sure the Capitol will not like that. They will own her, and she will let them, because really, what’s the point?

She looks out the windows at the glittering city. Maybe they’ll give her an apartment here, and she’ll never have to go back to the districts. No, that wouldn’t work. They  _ need _ her to keep up appearances. 

She’s sure the Capitol will own her, sure as she can be until Konstantin comes in one morning (or day, or afternoon, or  _ whenever _ , because Villanelle drifts in and out of consciousness on absolutely no schedule) and informs her she is not, in fact, in a hospital in the Capitol, but instead underground.

“But what about the windows?” she asks, and Konstantin gives her a look full of too much pity. She hates pity.

“There are not any windows,” he says, and just like that, the windows on her right disappear, replaced by smooth metal walls. The illusion shatters. 

She blinks, and gone are the windows and the skyscrapers she’d thought were outside of them. Her mind must’ve filled in the confusing blanks (with the help of the morphling, thank you very much). She thought she had a very nice view of the city in some expensive hospital, but Konstantin is right. There are no windows.

And Villanelle is too fucking high on morphling.

“You are in Thirteen,” he tells her, and she shakes her head.

“There is no Thirteen,” but she slurs her words, and Konstantin rolls his eyes and leaves. And Villanelle falls asleep.

 

.

 

The second time someone comes to see her (besides the doctor -- a gruff, annoyed man who never laughs at her drug-induced humor), it is not Konstantin. The morphling dose is lower now, because apparently she is  _ healing _ , so she recognizes the woman in the doorway immediately.

“Carolyn,” she says, but her voice croaks and she sounds pathetic.

“Villanelle,” Carolyn says back, venturing into the room. She looks around, taking in the plain walls, the white sheets, and the overall disappointing accommodations. Villanelle hopes Carolyn’s presence means she’ll get some goddamn decorations.

“Isn’t my room ugly?” She gives Carolyn a light smile.

“I didn’t come here to talk about your room,” Carolyn points out.

“Could you tell whoever to give me some flowers or something? Blue ones.”

Carolyn stands next to Villanelle’s hospital bed and looks down at her. “I’ll see what I can do.” She doesn’t say anything else; Villanelle hates when people go silent. When they wait for the other person to get so uncomfortable they fill the silence with nonsense. Except Villanelle isn’t like other people. She could do this all day.

“Right,” Carolyn continues, and Villanelle is thankful they didn’t have to play that game very long. “I want to say congratulations.”

Annoyance hits Villanelle like a truck. “Why am I underground? Why is the President not here himself?”

“All will be revealed in time. There are some aspects of your situation that are better suited for Konstantin to explain to you.”

“Then why are you here?” Villanelle wishes she had the little remote that gave her more morphling at will, but the doctor had taken it away from her once they’d lowered her dose. No more random passing out when she didn’t feel like talking to someone.

Expressionless, Carolyn simply folds her hands in front of her. “I just want to stress that you are alive for a very important reason. That is all.”

Making a face, Villanelle doesn’t respond. Carolyn turns, and as she gets closer to the door, something occurs to Villanelle. “Wait,” she says, and Carolyn turns. Villanelle struggles to sit up a bit, not a fan of the double chin-feeling she gets from lying down all the time. “I’m here on purpose.”

It’s not a question, but Carolyn says, “Yes.”

“So Eve is dead on purpose.”

Carolyn does not answer right away. She looks at Villanelle with a gaze that feels like it’s going through her rather than connecting with her. Finally, she says, “Yes,” before she slips out the door and disappears.

Villanelle sits back against the pillows. God. She would kill for morphling right now.

She brings her hand to the wound on her stomach, rubbing her thumb over the sutures. She starts to dig into it, wincing slightly at the pain. Her heart rate monitor starts picking up in speed, but she doesn’t stop digging until she feels it give a little. “Fuck,” she breathes, but smiles when her finger comes away stained with blood. She presses on it until her heart rate concerns the doctors enough to run in and give her more morphling.

She sinks into sleep.

 

.

 

“Villanelle,” says Konstantin, and she wishes there were windows in this room now, so she could blink at the light filtering in and complain to him about waking her up at such an early hour.

The truth is, she has no idea what hour it is. Fucking underground.

“What,” she says, and it sounds a lot more pissed than she intended.

He sits on the chair next to her, giving her a smile both amused and pained. He wears a black coat, as usual, his beard trimmed and tidy. She wonders if he’s lost any sleep lately.

When Villanelle won for the first time, she didn’t have nightmares. In fact, she had nightmares before she went to the Games, about her father dying, but after the Games, they stopped. She never dreamt of the faces she’d slashed, or about the families she’d smiled at her Victory Tour, knowing she’d killed their children. She didn’t dream at all, in fact, but just now, Konstantin had woken her from a decidedly morphling-induced nightmare about Eve.

It’s always about Eve.

“Do you remember what I told you, when you first woke up?” Konstantin sits very nicely in the chair, waiting for her to figure it out.

Villanelle tries to remember. She tries, tries, tries -- there are gears turning in her head and usually, she remembers things instantly, but the drugs make it hard. Finally, though, she does. “Thirteen,” she says. “Except that isn’t possible.”

Konstantin lifts his hands and gestures at the room around them. “It’s possible. We are here.” Villanelle waits for him to explain, gesturing at him. “Okay,” he starts. “There has been a plan all along. You would win, you would go on the Victory Tour, and then when you had your audience with the President you would…” He waits.

“Kill him,” Villanelle says, filling in the blank with the only possible option. That’s what she does best.

“Yes,” he answers.

“But that would be a suicide mission. Sure, getting in would be easy, but getting out…” She looks at him. 

She realizes she’s missing the point.

And everything, everything hits her very, very hard. They could not have possibly planned Eve, or what she would feel for Eve (or even guess she would feel anything for Eve), and banking on her winning would be one thing, but making her win would be something else entirely. She’d played right into it, by winning, but one thing doesn’t fit.

“How did they know,” she asks, “That I would be willing to die?”

“They didn’t,” he says, and now, he doesn’t look at her. “They still don’t.”

“You think I can do it without dying.” It’s the only reason she can think of to justify why Konstantin would even agree.

He nods. “I do.”

Villanelle stops looking at him, instead lying back and looking at the ceiling. “Why am I here, and not in the Capitol?”

“You are in a discreet hospital in the Capitol, officially.” He adjusts his position, pulling his jacket tighter around him. “When you are better, you will make an appearance on television.”

After Konstantin fully explains the plan to her, Villanelle agrees. He tells her she will go on her Victory Tour, she will shake the necessary hands, she will make the necessary television appearances, and then she will go to the President’s mansion for a private meeting. There, she will kill him and somehow, somehow manage to get out the mansion and back to a waiting hovercraft on the other side of the city. 

Somehow, she will manage. Konstantin reassures her she will.

What Konstantin doesn’t see is Villanelle does not want to manage. She wants to kill the President, and then she wants --

She wants to die.

 

.

 

One morning, Villanelle wakes up in a new, different room, similar to the hospital room in that it does not have windows, but different in that there is a bed, a chest, a closet, and a small desk. An automated voice wakes her up -- “Subject Oksana Astankova, please move to the tablet at the door.”

Villanelle blinks at the voice. She does not move.

It takes the voice asking for a fifth time before she groans, “Fucking  _ all right _ ,” and gets up. She goes to the tablet near the door. 

The voice continues, “Please place your right wrist underneath the tablet.”

While Villanelle usually isn’t a fan of rules, her curiosity bests her. She sticks her wrist underneath the tablet, revealing a red light. In seconds, there is a… a schedule? Of some sort. Villanelle pulls her hand back and inspects it. Yes, a schedule now written on her arm. 

“Your first appointment is breakfast,” the voice tells her, before it  _ beeps _ and then nothing. Villanelle doesn’t want to follow the schedule, but her stomach growls, so she slips out the door and decides to investigate.

The hallways of District 13 confirm for her that whatever this facility is -- Konstantin wasn’t lying. She’s definitely underground. She walks and walks until she passes someone, asks them which direction the cafeteria or the mess hall or whatever they call it here is. The woman she stops blinks at her, before pointing down a hallway. Soon enough, Villanelle finds a group of people heading in the same direction and follows them.

When she emerges into the cafeteria, everyone’s heads turn. They all stare at her.

Then, they start whispering.

“There you are,” a voice says, and someone grabs Villanelle by the elbow. Villanelle turns, ready to shove them off, but stops abruptly when she realizes who -- 

“Elena?”

“You remember me,” Elena remarks, leading Villanelle over to a line for the food. 

“Of course,” Villanelle murmurs. But if Elena’s alive, that means -- “Is Eve…?”

Elena glances at her, sizing her up, before a shadow crosses her face. “She’s not. Honestly, I’m not even sure why  _ I’m _ here, but they thought I was valuable or something. Same as you.”

Valuable. Konstantin had told her as much. But why wouldn’t they think Eve was… Villanelle just nods as Elena continues explaining how Thirteen has treated her. When they arrive to the food servers, Villanelle wishes she could just pile the plate with everything on it, but they restrict to her one scoop of each… Each being several different kinds of pure mush. Villanelle makes a face.

Elena has kept talking, but Villanelle pays little attention. She does not mind that Elena follows her to a table in the corner, but she  _ does _ mind that people look at her.

“Don’t mind them,” Elena tells her, voice low. “They just haven’t seen victors before.”

“Did they tell you what they want me to do?” Villanelle stares at her food, poking it with a fork. Money and fame has spoiled her, surely. Eating this mush is the last thing she wants to do.

Elena hums. “Yeah. Frankly, I’d understand if you didn’t want to.”

“I do not think they are giving me a choice,” Villanelle counters. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. I am going to do it.”

“You…” Elena stares at her. For a long moment, Villanelle just scrapes her food around her plate while Elena stares at her. Finally, Elena shrugs. “Never would’ve guessed you were the suicidal type.”

“I’m  _ not _ ,” Villanelle says. “I am not going to die.” She doesn’t know how true that statement is, but she doesn’t  _ want _ to die. She simply sees no other option. But that would be too convoluted to explain to Elena, who probably doesn’t understand what happened between her and Eve in the first place.

Eve. Just thinking about her makes Villanelle’s gut ache.

“Sure,” Elena says. She stands, then, taking her tray elsewhere, and before she leaves, she whispers, “Eve wouldn’t want this, you know. You going off and getting yourself killed. They’re playing you, and you’re eating right into it.”

Villanelle says nothing, keeping her eyes on her plate. She doesn’t care what Eve would want. It doesn’t matter what Eve would want. Because Eve is dead. 

 

.

  
  


The only interesting stop on the Victory Tour is District 5. Normally, Villanelle would gloat. She would smile and wave and look pretty on stage (what she did the first time she won), hoping that the families of the other tributes she’d killed saw how undisturbed about it she really was. When she was younger, she hoped it hurt them.

Now, she looks out across the crowd and spots a man she guesses must be Niko, Eve’s husband, and she gives him a small nod. 

It’s the best she can do, considering the circumstances. 

He glares at her, but when she moves to talk to him, someone grabs her arm. Almost by reflex, she quickly turns to snap the arm in half, but stops herself -- Konstantin maintains a light grip on her forearm, shaking his head at her. “It won’t be right.”

Villanelle thinks about all of the other victory tours she’s seen on television, about all of the other victors who walked over to the families of the ones they’d killed or allied with -- why couldn’t she?

“It will,” she tells Konstantin, shrugging out of his grip. She walks down the stairs and to the crowd and the Peacekeepers keep the people at bay, but for Villanelle, there is only Niko.

He doesn’t move the entire time she walks toward him. 

Finally, she reaches him, within three feet, and she shoves her hand out into the space between them. Holds it there, waiting for Niko to shake. Finally, his stoic expression crumbles at the edges, and he reaches for her hand. They shake, and Villanelle doesn’t say the first thing that comes to mind, which is  _ your mustache is disgusting _ . 

Instead, she says, “I admired Eve very much.”

He looks like he wants to dispute her, but he only nods, pressing his lips together into a tight line. “Thank you,” he says. “For helping her.”

Normally, Villanelle would not do this. Normally, she would not admit she has done anything wrong (because honestly, that is a bad look), but here, here she says, “It should be Eve here. Not me.” The words are quiet and meant only for him, because Villanelle would never let something like that get out.

And Niko seems to understand that. He nods, wipes a stray tear off his cheek, and Villanelle turns and walks away.

 

.

 

It’s simple. Villanelle has an ear piece disguised as an elaborate set of earrings. It is not unlike the jobs she has done in the past -- get in, kill someone, get out. Everyone tells her their thoughts; Elena tells Villanelle to charm her way in, use her wiles and get them to trust her. Konstantin tells her to do what she does best. 

Carolyn does not say much of anything, when Villanelle stands in the command center before she leaves. Once she is on a train and going to the Capitol, however, it is mostly Carolyn’s voice in her ear, feeding her information like she’s a toddler.

The train takes Villanelle to the Capitol, and she doesn’t look out the window because she doesn’t want to see the glamour and the temptation. Those things are not why she is here. She wants to see blood and blood only -- blood on an expensive, maybe marble, floor, and a dead President on her hands. 

Despite this, Carolyn chirps in her ear, “You may not know this, but the building you’re passing is one of the oldest in the city.”

And Villanelle says to herself, “Please shut up.”

Thankfully, the train goes underground and Villanelle no longer has to worry about avoiding the windows. They come to a stop, where Villanelle steps out of the train and into the hands of four designers. 

She lets them take her into a dressing room, where they bicker over what she should wear. One of them wants pink, another wants blue, but Villanelle speaks only when one of them suggests black.

Caesar Flickerman, interviewer extraordinaire, waits for her in the lobby of the President’s mansion, and his gaze immediately runs over her outfit. The designer who wanted black put her in a black evening down, a black veil, and deep, bright red lipstick. Caesar’s jaw drops a little, and Villanelle represses any feeling of satisfaction she gets from it.

“Black,” Caesar says. “Stunning. Absolutely stunning. You  _ always _ knock it out of the park. Except, for this… I thought you’d go somewhere a little brighter.”

“I am in mourning,” Villanelle says simply. 

Caesar and his camera crew follow after her as she climbs the steps to the second floor. There, a Peacekeeper waits for her. “The President is very excited to meet with you,” he tells her, leading her down a long, winding hallway.

Villanelle is too busy memorizing the route they take through the maze of hallways to respond. She notes the rooms that lead to nothing, and the secret staircases reserved for servants. She’s ready, and she will make it out. Caesar attempts to keep up with them, muttering under his breath about Villanelle being unresponsive.

“I’d really like to go live, if you’re feeling up to it,” he asks, jogging a little bit to keep up with her. 

“I’m not,” she replies, voice flat. Going live would present a few problems -- namely, the fact that she would have to assassinate the President on live television. As herself.

But there seems to be no room for discussion. As they approach the study, where the President waits in the doorway for her, Caesar turns to the camera, flicks on his earpiece, and says, “We are coming to you live from the President’s mansion, where victor Villanelle, previously known as your favorite Oksana Astankova, will be meeting with the President for a second time. The first, as you all very well know, was when she won at a very early twelve years old! Can you believe that?”

“Oh dear,” Carolyn says in Villanelle’s ear. “This is quite troubling.”

Villanelle does not speak, because this is not a two way mic. Instead, she smiles warmly at the President, shakes his hand, and turns toward the camera to grin at the audience before they walk into the study.

“Miss Astankova, thank you for coming,” the President says.

“I didn’t really have a choice, did I?” she remarks, and Caesar laughs uncomfortably.

The President takes a seat in a plush lavender chair, gesturing for her to sit across from him. “I suppose not,” he hums. He folds his hands in his lap, a perpetual smile on his face from years in front of the cameras. 

There are four people in the room. The Peacekeeper by the door, the cameraman, Caesar Flickerman, and the President. “Whenever you’re ready,” Carolyn tells her, and Villanelle imagines the command center back in Thirteen, everyone waiting for her to make her first move.

Villanelle reaches up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, but instead grabs the hairpin holding her hair together, and as her ponytail falls apart, she slams the hairpin into the President’s eye. The President is first because he is the primary target and she cannot afford for him to get away. Caesar is second because he is loud and screaming, and Villanelle lunges and snaps his neck before he has a chance to turn to the camera and call for help.

“The authorities have been alerted,” Carolyn tells Villanelle, before Villanelle goes for the camera man.

Villanelle kicks the camera to turn it off, and in the same instant, the Peacekeeper shoots her.

The bullet tears into her stomach -- no, the lower part of her ribcage. She can feel the splintered bone and she lets out a low groan, almost falls, but she needs to finish this.

Another shot goes off as she reaches the Peacekeeper, but Villanelle barely feels the bullet dig into her gut. She twists the gun out of the Peacekeeper’s hand and shoots him point blank in the forehead, and then she walks out into the hallway, shooting down another guard running toward her.

Her breathing strains. She slows down. “Villanelle,” Konstantin’s voice now in her ear. “Keep going.”

Konstantin waits for only her two blocks away. Two blocks between her and going back. 

To what? What is there to go back for? To go back so she can be some sort of symbol for the people? Villanelle supposes Carolyn will attempt to become President, that was most likely the plan all along. Carolyn will be President and maybe the Hunger Games will continue, maybe it will not, but none of that matters to her if she dies.

Instead of ignoring the pain, Villanelle lets herself feel it. Every single step is agony, and she leaves blood all over the place. 

As she ducks into a guest room to avoid gunfire, Villanelle thinks about Eve. Things would be different, if Eve was alive and they were both in Thirteen. But that would never happen. Villanelle thinks about kissing, about the feel of Eve’s body and the way Eve’s breath would catch or the way she caught Eve looking at her so, so many times. All of it hurts more than the fire spreading in her gut.

All of it hurts.

Villanelle shoots another Peacekeeper and makes it to the stairs. She walks slower and slower, both Konstantin and Carolyn urging her forward. Konstantin yells, so loudly Villanelle is no longer picking out the words he says, only his volume. She remembers him yelling when she was a girl, when she’d fuck up, and she smiles. She tastes blood in her mouth.

This dying is worse than the other dying she did in the Arena. This is so much -- too much. Elena talks suddenly in her ear, too, telling her to get her arse into gear. Everyone tells her to keep going, but Villanelle wants to sink to the floor and let it happen.

She wants to become a pool of blood and nothing else.

When she reaches the bottom step, the Peacekeepers hold her at gunpoint; they do not continue shooting. She wishes they would get it over with.

One of them grabs one of her hands, yanking it behind her back, and Villanelle clenches her jaw as pain shoots through her. 

“Villanelle,” a voice says, and this voice is different than all of the others in her ear. “Villanelle, I swear to God, you better beat the shit out of that guy and  _ keep fucking going _ .”

Villanelle gets up in an instant, slamming the Peacekeeper against the wall and shooting him with his own gun, right in the back of the head, because that voice -- 

The voice is Eve’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hopefully it won't take me a whole ass month to update again but!
> 
> i have no excuses except writing is my major and i am doing it 98% percent of the time i am awake in this world for school so this project falls to low priority. 
> 
> did that sentence make sense? i can't tell. 
> 
> hope you enjoy this chapter :)


	15. we bleed the same

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They can't talk about it.

On the last day of the 74th Hunger Games, Carolyn Martens swore when she walked into the Gamemaker’s Hub it would be the last time. The announcement that she would pass on her legacy to Kenny came days after, before the Victory Tour even began. Of course, all the reporters questioned her about leaving right before what promised to be one of the most controversial years in Hunger Games history: the Quell. 

When Carolyn walks into the Gamemaker’s Hug (for what will surely be the last time) on the last day of the Quarter Quell, only Kenny looks unsurprised to see her. He merely steps aside and lets her take over.

“Leave us,” she says, and everyone except her son vacates the room, workstations abandoned.

“I like Eve, you know,” Kenny tells her.

“I know.” Carolyn looks at the screen before her, watches impassively as Villanelle hovers over Eve, hands uselessly pushing into the wound on Eve’s stomach. 

“You suck,” Eve says, and Carolyn turns her attention to another screen -- it details for her where the hovercraft is. “Just kill me.”

“No,” Villanelle argues, just as Carolyn presses her intercom button and says, “Craft three, go in please.”

Static on the other end -- “ _ But they aren’t --” _

“Take them both,” Carolyn orders, her voice leaving no room for question. “Alive.”

No response on the other end, but on the screen, the hovercraft moves in. On screen, Eve’s eyes flutter closed and Villanelle makes an inhuman sound, something like a scream. “Kenny,” Carolyn says, “go to black.”

And Kenny steps to his podium and presses a few buttons. The official screen goes to black, and then the Capitol song plays, cheery and delightful, as Caesar Flickerman announces that Villanelle is the winner of the 75th Hunger Games. 

On the camera, two Capitol cleaners swing down to Eve and Villanelle’s level. One makes to step toward Villanelle, but she lunges for them, too quick for her own good. Carolyn shakes her head, annoyed, as Villanelle passes out before she’s able to do any damage.

“ _ Almost got me, _ ” the cleaner jokes, clearly shaken.

“ _ Lots of people would pay for the honor of being killed by her _ ,” the other cleaner points out, before they both each grab a body and rise back up to the hovercraft. 

Carolyn nods at the screen, pleased with ending yet another Games, before she turns to Kenny. “You saved the other one, didn’t you?”

Kenny chews on his lower lip, avoiding her gaze. He takes a moment to psych himself up before he looks up and meets his mother’s gaze. “I told her she can’t tell anyone, can’t go anywhere, obviously, but I didn’t want her to --”

“That won’t be necessary,” Carolyn says, waving him off. “We’ll take her to Thirteen, with the others.”

“Thirteen,” he repeats. “You planned some sort of revolution without me?”

“Kenny,” she chastises, “you’re terrible at keeping secrets.” And with that, she turns and walks out of the Hub with every intention to never return.

 

.

 

Eve wakes up in a mournful room. Just her gurney, IV stand, a side table, and a chair tucked inconveniently in a corner. This is not the first time she has woken up -- she’d blinked awake and almost screamed the first time, heart monitor beeping wildly before a frantic boy rushed into the room and pumped her full of morphling. The second time, Konstantin had come to tell her everything -- where she was, that she couldn’t leave this room, and that she had won the Hunger Games.

“Bullshit,” she’d told him. Villanelle had been alive, hovering above her. There was no way.

He’d shrugged and left, leaving her to think about his words for hours.

Villanelle. Fuck. Eve hadn’t even wanted to think about the younger woman, but Villanelle dominated her thoughts. For days, she paced around the room between meal times and Konstantin’s visits, and thought about Villanelle’s face, Villanelle dying, Villanelle’s body against her own -- all of it. 

She’d come to a terrible conclusion: she’d been in love.

Past tense, due to Villanelle being dead and all. But no. She couldn’t be dead. Whenever Eve resorted to accepting that Villanelle was dead, she said in the chair in the corner and didn’t let herself move. Because Villanelle  _ couldn’t _ be dead. There was no fucking way.

She wasn’t allowed to die.

The reality of that was too scary to think about, that Eve was alone in this fucked up world, not allowed to leave fucking  _ District Thirteen _ , and Villanelle was dead. Dead and probably living it up in some version of the afterlife. “Jesus Christ,” Eve had said to herself, putting her head in her hands. 

Two weeks. Eve spends two weeks in that room before Elena bursts in.

Before Eve can even react enough to begin thinking about  _ how _ Elena is here, Elena tells her what’s going on in rapid words.

Villanelle. Alive. Villanelle is alive and somewhere in the Capitol, but also bleeding out currently and maybe sort of dying, but they really, really need you in the Command center because she --

“--killed the President,” Elena finishes. She takes in a large breath, then continues, “Or I suppose ‘assassinated’ is the right word, but --”

“Elena,” Eve says. “What. Is. Happening.”

“Right, yeah. Can you walk? They need you ASAP.”

That’s how Eve and Elena end up racing through the halls of Thirteen, and as much as Eve wants to look around and explore, it’s all she can do to keep up with Elena’s pace, her own injuries catching up to her as she sprints. She wonders about Elena’s concussion, trying not to think about Raymond slamming Elena against the Cornucopia or her supposedly lifeless body crumbling to the ground.

They reach a door at the end of a long, long hallway -- Eve is only two steps behind Elena as they burst in. Immediately, Eve’s gaze tracks to the middle of the room, to a large screen with security cameras from the President’s mansion. Then, on a screen next to it, a shaky image being projected from what could possibly be a body cam. 

Villanelle’s body cam.

Eve looks around the room. Carolyn, Kenny, Elena, a few others Eve doesn’t recognize. But where is… “Konstantin,” she says, rushing forward to stand next to Carolyn. “Where is he?”

“Two blocks from the mansion,” Kenny answers. “She’s not going to make it that far, not with the wound she’s got.”

“She’ll fucking have to,” Eve snaps. She glares at Carolyn. “You told me she was dead.”

“In a few minutes,” Carolyn starts, “that might be true.”

And there, on the screen, Carolyn’s words start to play out. Villanelle is rushing down the stairs, but then she is no longer rushing -- she is slowly coming to a stop as she finds two Peacekeepers waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs. They hold her at gunpoint, and Eve watches a bloodied hand come into view as Villanelle raises both of them above her head.

One of the Peacekeepers grabs her, getting ready to cuff her, and Eve knows that as soon as Villanelle’s hands are both behind her back, she’ll have no chance. Eve reacts then, lunging forward to mash at the buttons on the control panel as she says, “Villanelle,” in a desperate, sickening tone.

“Villanelle,” she continues, “I swear to God, you better beat the shit out of that guy and keep fucking going.”

She doesn’t say everything else she wants to say. She doesn’t explain how it feels to see Villanelle alive again, even only over a shaky screen that barely shows Eve Villanelle’s face. She doesn’t explain the revelation she’s had over the past several weeks, or the hole that’s been gouged deep in her abdomen that once held whatever stupid feelings she had for Villanelle.

She doesn’t say anything. 

She watches as the camera goes almost black, the sounds of breath leaving someone’s lungs and a  _ thump _ of a kick to the groin. And then the camera is outside, Villanelle is running, and Eve actually smiles.

 

.

 

Earlier, thinking about Konstantin almost two blocks away was a comfort. At least he would be close enough to exact revenge in that quiet, distant way of his. She knew he wouldn’t think kindly of her suicide attempt, and she swears, as she runs, that she’ll make it up to him.

If she makes it to him. 

Villanelle runs out of the mansion and replays Eve’s words in her head. They’d sounded too desperate, too crazed to be something concocted by Carolyn and her goons, but could it be true? Could Eve be back in that stupid control room. Elena survived. Why not Eve? But Villanelle was usually good at catching people in a lie, and if Eve was alive… That means many people lied to her.

As Villanelle makes a mental note to hone in on her skills of avoiding deception, a Peacekeeper comes out of nowhere on her left, barreling into her with the blunt force of a mutt created by a Gamemaker.

She falls hard to the ground, the wind escaping her, and she feels the sharpness of her bullet wounds, accompanied by the uncomfortable wet feeling of blood soaking through her shirt. 

Oh, right. Dying.

Villanelle rolls onto her front, pushing herself up with her elbows, but the Peacekeeper is faster, as he’s not fucking  _ bleeding out _ , and he shoves her against the ground, scraping her chin against the concrete. He attempts to sit on her, hold her down that way, but Villanelle ignores the pain, grits her teeth, and thinks back to her training.

_ Again. Konstantin grins at her from above. She’s on the ground, eleven years old, and blood gushes from a split lip. He offers her a hand. She pushes herself up, grabs it, and barely registers it as he yanks her forward and sends her rolling, flipping limb over awkward limb. _

_ Trust no one, he says. Trust is what will get you killed. _

_ He crouches down beside her, elbows resting on his knees (he’s younger than he is now, more agile), and Villanelle strikes. She propels herself off the ground and pushes hard against gravity, managing to push Konstantin back and onto his ass. And she laughs in his face. He smiles as she laughs, laughs, laughs. _

More blood in her mouth, but Villanelle smiles. She twists underneath the Peacekeeper and goes for his throat, using all the energy she has to throw him to the side and slam his head into the concrete. Again. People are stopping, gathering, watching. Someone recognizes her, in atrocious Capital garb, and she hears her name in hushed, frightened tones.

And Villanelle smiles a bloody smile. Laughs. She stands up. Stumbles the few steps she can before she falls to her knees again.

“Eve,” she says softly, her vision hazy. Konstantin is only two blocks away. Less now, that she’s out of the mansion and walking.

“Villanelle,” the voice says, and Villanelle doesn’t know if Eve can hear her or not, but the voice is there nonetheless. Villanelle ghosts a hand up to her ear, just to make sure the earpiece is still there and she’s not just hallucinating this.

“Keep going,” Eve’s voice urges. “The pain is in your head.”

Villanelle shakes her head, both in disagreement and in an attempt to rid her mind of the fog settling at the base of the cerebellum. She can’t walk, probably, but she tries anyway. She blinks, takes a step, blinks again.

“Are you…” she slurs, before trying again. “Are you real?”

A pause. No response. Of course, of course. It’s just in her head, just a near death voice in her head giving her a purpose. But what purpose is there, if Eve’s gone? Even if she’s managed to create a fake Eve in her head, even if --

“Yes,” the voice says. “It’s me. I’m here. Well, not  _ there _ . Which is why you have to keep going.”

Villanelle spits blood onto the ground. “I’m going,” she argues.

“Barely,” Eve fires back.

“Let me see you… try and walk this with a bullet wound.” And Villanelle swears she hears laughter on the other end. Beautiful, beautiful laughter.

And then Konstantin is there, wrapping his big, strong hands around Villanelle’s shoulders and pulling her through a door. The room is small, obviously a safe house of some kind, but there, on the table, are medical supplies. Konstantin drags Villanelle to the table and grabs at her shirt, pulling it up and revealing the small hole.

Such a small, tiny hole. Doing so much.

“Here,” Konstantin says, offering her gauze. She presses it against the wound as he pushes a needle into her upper arm. “Morphling,” he explains, when she looks at him inquiringly.

“It will just make me groggy,” she argues.

“Better than dead.” He pulls out a small needle and thread and gets to work, as Villanelle works to keep her head up. 

When he has sewn her up, Konstantin helps Villanelle to her feet once again, explaining that their escape route is the top floor of a building without an elevator (and Villanelle complains, under her breath, about the Capital’s decisions regarding the importance of building safety), and as they climb flight after flight, Konstantin waiting patiently for her, Villanelle slowly realizes that no one is following them. 

“Where are they?” she says aloud, and Konstantin throws a glance toward the middle of the staircases, down to the ground.

“They have probably found the President,” he answers, offering no more information. 

Villanelle nods, pausing a beat to catch her breath. Just a few more flights. “Konstantin,” she says, watching him just barely acknowledge her words. “Why me?”

He glances back at her. He knows what she is asking -- she asked it before, once, only a few weeks after her took her in. He hadn’t given her a straight answer then, and she knows he debates now whether to stick to the truth or something adjacent to it. He continues up the stairs, grunting a bit, before he says, “I could tell.”

“Tell what?”

“How broken you were,” he says, decidedly cryptic. Villanelle doesn’t push, but she doesn’t need to, as he realizes he needs to explain more. “You were so little, but you had years behind you. You’d lived a full life, fuller than mine, even then, and I don’t know…” He stops. “I saw that you were broken,” he explains, almost embarrassed. “I wanted to fix you.”

She reaches him, puts a hand on his burly shoulder. She grins, knows she’s showing her teeth in the feral way that scares most people (but not him). “I was too shattered to fix.”

“You didn’t need fixing,” he corrects. “You’re you. That’s it.”

They continue up the stairs, finally reaching the top. There’s a hovercraft waiting for them, ready to take them back to Thirteen, but Villanelle pauses a moment, looking out over the Capital, wondering if she’ll ever see it again. Like this.

She turns away, finally, and gets onto the hovercraft.

 

.

 

Villanelle arrives on a stretcher. They need to take her to surgery, but Eve insists on meeting them on the landing pad. It takes a few tugs on strings by Carolyn, but Eve climbs the stairs and walks through the giant metal doors that separate the underground from the aboveground. It’s been weeks since she tasted fresh air, and she only takes a moment to breathe it in before the hovercraft displaces it, landing almost silently about a hundred feet away.

Then there’s Konstantin, running alongside the stretcher. His hand tight on a pale arm, a tuft of blonde hair splayed against a white, crimson-stained pillow.

Eve runs to meet them, ignoring her own injuries, and her hand finds Villanelle’s weak grasp like it was meant to hold it her entire life.

“Eve,” Villanelle croaks, and it is not a sexy reunion, what with Villanelle’s bloodstained teeth and Eve’s forehead wet with sweat, but it is a reunion.

And they are both alive.

Eve holds onto Villanelle’s hand and squeezes it, harder and harder until she feels Villanelle squeeze back.

 

.

 

When Villanelle finally is released from the medical wing, it’s almost as if Eve and Villanelle don’t know what to do. There’s touching when Villanelle slides out of the bed and Eve loops an arm around her waist, helping her along, but it’s simply to help and there’s nothing… well, there’s nothing sexual about it. Eve almost misses Villanelle’s flirtatious quips and steps over the line that were almost always too far. 

Because this… whatever this is -- it’s weird and it’s awkward and Eve just wishes Villanelle would take the reigns and control the situation. 

But part of her knows Villanelle is waiting for her to do that. Not because Villanelle doesn’t want to, but because Eve hasn’t yet. They died for each other, really and truly died for each other, and yet --

They can’t talk about it.

Eve pushes the wheelchair down the series of hallways back to Villanelle’s small, grey room, having memorized the layout of Thirteen as soon as they’d let her out her own quarantine. When they reach the door, Villanelle lifts her wrist and opens it with the small barcode on her skin. 

It’s undecorated, almost drab, and Eve doesn’t know what she expected. She says, “It’s not very you.”

“I  _ know _ ,” Villanelle mutters. “They think it’s a waste of material to splurge on decorations.”

Eve smiles, glad Villanelle can’t see her when she’s turned away, because it would be Villanelle who complains about dire resources not being directed to her. “Need help onto the…” She doesn’t say  _ bed _ because it makes her think about… Well.

“Mm,” Villanelle hums, debating. “No.” She pushes herself upright with the arms of the chair, grunting a little, and Eve thinks about her own wounds, comparing them to multiple gunshots. Of course, Villanelle’s blood is soaked in morphling right now.

Despite her assumption, Villanelle stumbles almost as soon as she’s out of the chair, weak and tired, and Eve rushes to help her, grabbing blindly. One hand on Villanelle’s hip, the other tucked underneath Villanelle’s arm, they are suddenly too close. Villanelle lets out a breath, and Eve can feel it tickling the skin of her cheek.

Eve moves and puts Villanelle on the edge of the bed, and right before she takes a step back, Villanelle softly says, “Eve.”

Eve looks at her. She meets Villanelle’s hazel gaze and holds it, daring both herself and Villanelle to just  _ do something _ . 

“Kiss me,” Villanelle says, and Eve does.

She leans in, dismissing all thoughts that immediately compare this to some kind of first kiss because that is how it feels. There’s a bundle of nerves in the middle of her gut, somersaulting violently as she closes the distance between her and Villanelle.

There’s a soft, tiny brush of lips before Villanelle lets out a breath, and then there’s hands and lips and no breath to spare between the two of them. Villanelle opens her mouth, urging Eve’s kiss to quicken, deepen, and her fingernails scrape against Eve’s scalp, fingers burrowing into Eve’s hair and holding fast there, holding Eve against her with no plans to let go.

Eve pulls away to get a breath before diving right back in, pushing hard against Villanelle’s lips as her tongue scrapes against Villanelle’s teeth. Villanelle falls back and pulls Eve with her, until she mutters a quick, “ _ Ow _ ,” and Eve pulls away, suddenly serious.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No, no don’t stop kissing me,” Villanelle complains, but as Eve comes back in to continue doing just that, she hits a spot on Villanelle’s abdomen that makes Villanelle groan.

“Shit,” Eve says. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Villanelle says, before scooting over on the too-small bed and making room for Eve. Eve crawls in beside her and Villanelle turns until they face each other.

Villanelle reaches up and tucks a lock of hair behind Eve’s ear. “Will you stay?” Her hand lingers just below Eve’s jawline, fingertips soft on the skin there. Her thumb runs over Eve’s lips, tracing the same spots she’d kissed so hungrily moments ago. For a moment, Eve thinks Villanelle is going to lean in and kiss her again, but she waits for the answer.

Eve nods, ignoring the way her heart hammers in her chest. 

“Promise?” Villanelle asks, as she shuffles closer.

Eve meets Villanelle halfway, until they are hip to hip, chest to chest. They are touching everywhere and nowhere, just them and this small bed against the world. Villanelle is so close Eve could just break the wall between them, kiss her without saying another word, but she knows Villanelle needs to hear it. Eve rests her hand on Villanelle’s hip, feeling the sharp curve of her hipbone and using it to hold herself in the moment.

She waits long enough to consider her answer. She’s not going anywhere.

Eve responds, “Promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woof, you guys. this is the End of the main plot. i had planned to write some stupid and terrible post-everything epilogue that has smut in it, so that may come at some point. 
> 
> first and foremost, sorry for the wait. i fell out of love with killing eve and fell in love with three separate projects i was doing for school. i was spread thin and really wanted to work on this for you guys, but seriously did not have the mental energy. 
> 
> but. i want to say THANK YOU for being such kind readers and sticking with it. this story was my first step back into fanfic after a few years away, and it was amazing to fall in love with a television show all over again through writing it. getting comments while i was taking a break from writing this was amazing and really helped me through my semester, if you'll believe it.
> 
> i have other ideas for these two, so we'll see where that takes us. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is great. So, so great. Kudos and comments GREATLY appreciated. Probably gonna update weekly :)


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